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ENGLISH   RAMBLES: 

AND 

OTHER     FUGITIVE     PIECES, 

En  ^roae  nnU  Uast. 

BY 

WILLIAM     WINTER. 


"  /  should  lovt   to  f^o 

with  you,- 

-as 

r   have 

zone.   Cod 

knows  how 

o/tcn,— 

nto   Little   Britc 

in.   and 

Eastcheap, 

and    Green 

jlrtour 

Courts  and 

lyestminster 

Abbey.    I 

should  like 

to  travel    Ivith   you. 

outside  0/ 

the   last  0/ 

the    coac/ies 

down 

to    Braccbridge 

Hall."  - 

CHARLES 

Dickens. 

BOSTON: 
JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY. 

1884. 


Copyright  1883, 
By  William  Winter. 

All  Rights  Reserved. 


University  Press  : 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


< 


TO 

LAWRENCE     BARRETT, 

IN     WHOSE 
THOUGHTFUL     AND     SYMPATHETIC 

COMPANIONSHIP 

THESE     RAMBLES     WERE     ENJOYED, 

AND     BY     WHOSE 

FRIENDSHIP,     DURING      MANY      YEARS, 

THE     AUTHOR 

HAS  BEEN  HONOURED  AND  CHEERED, 

dTfjiEi  Tolumc 

IS     AFFECTIONATELY     INSCRIBED. 


^ 


PREFACE. 

ryEAUTIFUL  and  storied  scenes  which  have 
•^-'  soothed  and  elevated  the  iniiid  naturally 
inspire  a  feeling  of  gratitude.  It  is  this  feeling 
which  prompted  the  author  of  the  preseiit  volume 
to  write  a  record  of  his  English  Rambles.  It  also 
was  his  wish,  in  dwelling  thus  upon  the  rural 
loveliness  and  the  literary  and  historical  associa- 
tions of  England,  to  afford  sympathetic  guidance 
and  useful  suggestion  to  other  American  travel- 
lers, who,  like  himself,  might  be  attracted  to  roam 
a/nong  the  shrities  of  our  mother  land.  There  is 
no  pursuit  more  fascinating,  or,  in  a  high  intellect- 
ual sense,  more  remunerative  j  since  it  serves  to 
define  and  regulate  the  stores  of  knowledge  which 
have  been  acquired  by  reading,  to  correct  misap- 
prehensions of  fact,  to  broaden  tlu  mental  vision, 
to  ripen  and  refine  the  judgment  and  the  taste. 


6  Preface. 

and  to  fill  the  memory  with  ennobling  recollections. 
These  English  Rambles  are  designed  as  a  com- 
panion to  the  Trip  to  England.  They  were  first 
published  in  the  New  York  Tribune;  they  are  now 
reprinted,  in  a  revised for7n.  In  that  journal  also 
were  first  published  the  atithofs  commemorative 
iribittes  to  Longfellow,  which  are  inchtded  in  this 
book.  The  article  on  the  Pocfs  Death  was  writ- 
ten in  the  evening  of  the  day  on  luhich  he  died, 
and  the  Personal  Recollectio7is  and  the  Elegy  a 
few  days  afterwards.  The  Poems  here  presented 
have  hitherto  been  Wanderers  —  as  their  collective 
title  declares.  Two  of  them,  "In  Sanctuary''''  and 
"  W.  A.  S.,"  were  first  published  in  Harper'' s 
Magazine.  Most  of  them  are  now  for  the  first 
time  brought  together:  and  it  is  hoped  that  they 
may  find  favojir,  at  least  with  those  readers  who 
have  accepted  with  generous  kindness  the  previous 
poetical  writings  of  the  same  pen. 

W.  W. 
Fort  Hill,  New  Brighton,  Staten  Island, 
Aiigtist  15,  1883. 


^ 


CONTENTS. 

'^ 

I. 

ENGLISH    RAMBLES. 

I.  Up  to  London ii 

II.    Old  Churches  of  London 17 

III.  Literary  Shrines  of  London  ....  26 

IV.  A  Maunt  of  Edmund  Kean     ....  34 
V.    Stoke  Pogis  and  Thomas  Gray  ...  40 

VI.    At  the  Grave  of  Coleridge  ....  47 

VII.    On  Barnet  B.a.ttle-Field 55 

VIII.    A  Glimpse  of  Canterbury 60 

IX.    The  Shrines  of  Warwickshire  ...  67 

X.    A  Borrower  of  the  Night 81 

IL 

IN   ]\IE:\I0RY    of   LONGFELLOW. 

I.    The  Poet's  Death 93 

II.  Personal  Recollections 99 

in.    Elegy "3 


8  Cojitents. 

WANDERERS. 

The  Wrecker's  Bell 119 

Accomplices 126 

A  Dream  of  the  Past 128 

Homeward  Bound ^34 

A  Poet's  Life i4i 

The  Merry  Monarch 146 

Blue  Eyes  and  Black i49 

Old  Times ^S^ 

John  McCullough ^53 

Lawrence  Barrett ^5^ 

In  Honour  of  William  Warren 162 

W.  A.  S 167 

White  Roses ^7^ 

In  Sanctuary ^73 


^ 


ENGLISH   RAMBLES. 

1SS2. 


^ 


"  All  that  I  sazv  returns  upon  my  view  ; 
All  that  I  heard  comes  back  upon  my  ear ; 
All  that  I  felt  this  moment  doth  renew" 


^^  Fair  land!  by  Time's  parental  love  made  free. 
By  Social  Order'' s  watchful  arms  embraced. 
With  unexampled  union  vieet  in  thee, 
For  eye  and  mind,  the  present  and  the  past ; 
With  golden  prospect  for  futurity , 
If  that  be  reverenced  which  ought  to  last." 

Wordsworth. 


^ 


ENGLISH     RAMBLES. 


I. 


UP   TO    LONDON. 


ABOUT  the  middle  of  the  night  the  great  ship 
comes  to  a  pause,  off  the  coast  of  Ireland,  and, 
looking  forth  across  the  black  waves,  and  through 
the  rifts  in  the  rising  mist,  we  see  the  low  and  lone- 
some verge  of  that  land  of  trouble  and  misery.  A 
beautiful  white  light  flashes  now  and  then  from  the 
shore,  and  at  intervals  the  mournful  booming  of  a 
solemn  bell  floats  over  the  sea.  Soon  is  heard  the 
rolling  click  of  oars,  and  then  two  or  three  dusky 
boats  glide  past  the  ship,  and  hoarse  voices  hail 
and  answer.  A  few  stars  are  visible  in  the  hazy 
sky,  and  the  breeze  from  the  land  brings  off,  in 
fitful  puffs,  the  fragrant  balm  of  grass  and  clover, 


12  English  Rambles. 

mingled  with  the  salty  odors  of  sea-weed  and  slimy 
rocks.  There  is  a  sense  of  mystery  over  the  whole 
wild  scene  ;  but  we  realize  now  that  human  com- 
panionship is  near,  and  that  the  long  and  lonely 
ocean  voyage  is  ended. 

Travellers  who  make  the  run  from  Liverpool  to 
London  by  the  Midland  Railway  pass  through  the 
Vale  of  Derby,  and  skirt  around  the  stately  Peak 
that  Scott  has  commemorated  in  his  novel  of  "  Pev- 
eril."  It  is  a  more  rugged  country  than  is  seen 
in  the  transit  by  the  Northwestern  road,  but  not 
more  beautiful.  You  see  the  storied  mountain,  in 
all  its  delicacy  of  outline  and  all  its  airy  magnifi- 
cence of  poise,  soaring  into  the  sky  —  its  summit 
almost  lost  in  the  smoky  haze  —  and  you  wind 
through  hillside  pastures  and  meadow  lands  that 
are  curiously  intersected  with  low,  zigzag  stone 
walls ;  and  constantly,  as  the  scene  changes,  you 
catch  glimpses  of  green  lane  and  shining  river ;  of 
dense  copses  that  cast  their  cool  shadow  on  the 
moist  and  gleaming  emerald  sod  ;  of  long  white 
roads  that  stretch  away  like  cathedral  aisles,  and 
are  lost  beneath  the  leafy  arches  of  elm  and  oak ; 
of  little  church  turrets  embowered  in  ivy  ;  of  thatch 
cottages  draped  with  roses  ;  of  dark  ravines,  luxu- 
riant with  a  wild  profusion  of  rocks  and  trees  ;  and 
of  golden  grain  that  softly  waves  and  whispers  in 
the  summer  wind;  while,  all  around,  the  grassy 
banks  and  ghmmering  meadows  are  radiant  with 
yellow  daisies,  and  with  that  wonderful  scarlet  of 


up  to  London.  13 

the  poppy  which  gives  an  ahnost  human  glow  of 
life  and  loveliness  to  the  whole  face  of  England. 
After  some  hours  of  such  a  pageant  —  so  novel,  so 
fascinating,  so  fleeting,  so  stimulative  of  eager  cu- 
riosity and  poetic  desire  —  it  is  a  relief  at  last  to 
stand  in  the  populous  streets  and  among  the  grim 
houses  of  London,  with  its  surging  tides  of  life,  and 
its  turmoil  of  effort,  conflict,  exultation,  and  misery. 
How  strange  it  seems  —  yet,  at  the  same  time,  how 
homelike  and  familiar  !  There  soars  aloft  the  great 
dome  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  with  its  golden  cross 
that  flashes  in  the  sunset !  There  stands  the  Vic- 
toria Tower  —  fit  emblem  of  the  true  royalty  of  the 
sovereign  whose  name  it  bears.  And  there,  more 
lowly  but  more  august,  rise  the  sacred  turrets  of 
the  Abbey.  It  is  the  same  old  London  —  the  great 
heart  of  the  modern  world  —  the  great  city  of  our 
reverence  and  love.  As  the  wanderer  writes  these 
words  he  hears  the  plashing  of  the  fountains  in 
Trafalgar  Square  and  the  evening  chimes  that  peal 
out  from  the  spire  of  St.  I\Iartin's-in-thc-Fields,  and 
he  knows  himself  once  more  at  the  shrine  of  all  his 
youthful  dreams. 

To  the  observant  stranger  in  London  few  sights 
can  be  more  impressive  than  those  which  illustrate 
the  singular  manner  in  which  the  life  of  the  present 
encroaches  upon  the  memorials  of  the  past.  Old 
Temple  Bar  has  gone,  and  only  a  column,  at  the  junc- 
tion of  Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand,  denotes  where 
once  it  stood.     The  Midland  Railway  trains  dash 


14  English  Rambles. 

over  what  was  once  St.  Pancras  Churchyard  —  the 
burial-place  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft,  and  of  many 
other  British  worthies  — and  passengers  looking 
from  the  carriages  may  see  the  children  of  the 
neighbourhood  sporting  among  the  few  tombs  that 
yet  remain  in  that  despoiled  cemetery.  Dolly's 
Chop  House,  intimately  associated  with  the  wits  of 
the  reign  of  Queen  Anne,  has  been  destroyed. 
The  ancient  tavern  of  "The  Cock,"  immortahzed 
by  Tennyson,  in  his  poem  of  "  Will  Waterproofs 
Monologue,"  is  soon  to  disappear, — with  its  sin-' 
gular  wooden  entry,  that  existed  before  the  time  of 
the  Plague,  and  that  escaped  the  Great  Fire  of  1666. 
On  the  site  of  Northumberland  House  stands  the 
Grand  Hotel.  The  gravestones  that  formerly  paved 
the  yard  of  Westminster  Abbey  have  been  removed, 
to  make  way  for  grassy  lawns  intersected  with  path- 
ways. In  Southwark,  across  the  Thames,  the  en- 
gine-room of  the  brewery  of  Messrs.  Barclay  & 
Perkins  occupies  the  site  of  the  Globe  Theatre, 
that  Shakespeare  managed.  One  of  the  most  ven- 
erable and  beautiful  churches  in  London,  that  of 
St.  Bartholomew  the  Great,  —  a  gray,  mouldering 
temple,  of  the  twelfth  century,  hidden  away  in  a 
corner  of  Smithfield,  and  now  become  so  poor  that 
it  has  to  beg  sixpence  from  every  visitor,  —  is 
desecrated  by  the  irruption  of  an  adjacent  shop, 
the  staircase  hall  of  which  breaks  cruelly  into  the 
sacred  edifice  and  impends  above  the  altar.  As 
lately  as  the  12th  of  July,  1882,  the  present  writer, 


up  to  Londoi.  15 

walking  in  the  churchyard  of  St.  Paul's,  Covent 
Garden,  —  the  sepulchre  of  William  Wycherley, 
Robert  Wilks,  Charles  Macklin,  Joseph  Haines, 
Thomas  King,  Samuel  Butler,  Thomas  Southerne, 
Edward  Shuter,  Dr.  Arne,  Thomas  Davies,  Edward 
Kynaston,  Richard  Estcourt,  William  Havard,  and 
many  other  renowned  votaries  of  literature  and 
the  stage,  — found  workmen  building  a  new  wall 
to  sustain  the  enclosure,  and  almost  every  stone 
in  the  cemetery  uprooted  and  leaning  against  the 
adjacent  houses.  These  monuments,  it  was  said, 
would  be  replaced  ;  but  it  was  impossible  not  to 
consider  the  chances  of  error,  in  a  new  mortuary 
deal — and  the  grim  witticism  of  Rufus  Choate, 
about  dilating  with  the  wrong  emotion,  came  then 
into  remembrance,  and  did  not  come  amiss. 

Facts  such  as  these,  however,  bid  us  rem.ember 
how  even  the  relics  of  the  past  are  passing  away, 
and  that  cities,  unlike  human  creatures,  may  grow 
to  be  so  old  that  at  last  they  will  become  new.  It 
is  not  wonderful,  that  London  should  change  its 
aspect  from  one  decade  to  another,  as  the  living 
surmount  and  obliterate  the  dead.  Thomas  Sut- 
ton's Charter  House  School,  founded  in  161 1,  when 
Shakespeare  and  Ben  Jonson  were  still  writing, 
was  reared  upon  ground  in  which  several  thousand 
corpses  were  buried,  during  the  time  of  the  Indian 
Pestilence  of  1348  ;  and  it  still  stands  and  flour- 
ishes. Nine  thousand  new  houses,  it  is  said,  are 
built  in  the  great  capital  every  year,  and  twenty- 


1 6  English  Rambles. 

eight  miles  of  new  streets  are  thus  added  to  it.  On 
a  Sunday  I  drove  for  three  hours  through  the  east- 
ern part  of  London,  without  coming  upon  a  single 
trace  of  the  open  fields.  On  the  west,  all  the  re- 
gion from  Kensington  to  Richmond  is  settled  for 
most  part  of  the  way  ;  while  northward  the  city  is 
stretching  its  arms  toward  Hampstead,  Highgate, 
and  tranquil  and  blooming  Finchley.  Truly  the 
spirit  of  this  age  is  in  strong  contrast  with  that  of 
the  time  of  Henry  the  Eighth  when  (1580),  to  prevent 
the  increasing  size  of  London,  all  new  buildings 
were  forbidden  to  be  erected  "where  no  former 
hath  been  known  to  have  been."  The  march  of 
improvement  nowadays  carries  everything  before 
it :  even  British  conservatism  is  at  some  points  giv- 
ing way  :  and,  noting  the  changes  which  have  oc- 
curred here  within  only  five  years,  I  am  persuaded 
that  those  who  would  see  what  remains  of  the  Lon- 
don of  which  they  have  read  and  dreamed  —  the 
London  of  Dryden  and  Pope,  of  Addison,  Sheridan 
and  Byron,  of  Betterton,  Garrick,  and  Edmund 
Kean  — will,  as  time  passes,  find  more  and  more 
difficulty  both  in  tracing  the  footsteps  of  fame^  and 
in  finding  that  sympathetic,  reverent  spirit  which 
hallows  the  relics  of  genius  and  renown. 


''M 


II. 


OLD    CHURCHES   OF   LONDON. 


SIGHT-SEEING,  merely  for  its  own  sake,  is 
not  to  be  commended.  Hundreds  of  persons 
roam  through  the  storied  places  of  England,  carry- 
ing nothing  away  but  the  bare  sense  of  travel.  It 
is  not  the  spectacle  that  benefits,  but  the  meaning 
of  the  spectacle.  In  the  great  temples  of  religion, 
in  those  wonderful  cathedrals  which  are  the  glory 
of  the  old  world,  we  ought  to  feel,  not  merely  the 
physical  beauty,  but  the  perfect,  illimitable  faith, 
the  passionate,  incessant  devotion,  which  alone 
made  them  possible.  The  cold  intellect  of  a  scep- 
tical age  —  like  the  present  —  could  never  create 
such  a  majestic  cathedral  as  that  of  Canterl)urv. 
Not  till  the  pilgrim  feels  this  truth  has  he  really 


1 8  English  Ravi^lcs. 

learned  the  lesson  of  such  places,  —  to  keep  aHve 
in  his  heart  the  capacity  of  self-sacrifice,  of  toil  and 
of  tears,  for  the  grandeur  and  beauty  of  the  spirit- 
ual life.  At  the  tombs  of  great  men  we  ought  to 
feel  something  more  than  a  consciousness  of  the 
crumbling  clay  that  moulders  within,  —  something 
more  even  than  knowledge  of  their  memorable 
words  and  deeds  :  we  ought,  as  we  ponder  on  the 
certainty  of  death  and  the  evanescence  of  earthly 
things,  to  realize  that  Art  at  least  is  permanent,  and 
that  no  creature  can  be  better  employed  than  in 
noble  effort  to  make  the  soul  worthy  of  immortal- 
ity. The  relics  of  the  past,  contemplated  merely 
because  they  are  relics,  are  nothing.  You  tire,  in 
this  old  land,  of  the  endless  array  of  ruined  castles 
and  of  wasting  graves ;  3'ou  sicken  at  the  thought 
of  the  mortality  of  a  thousand  years,  decaying  at 
your  feet,  and  you  long  to  look  again  on  roses  and 
the  face  of  childhood,  the  ocean  and  the  stars. 
But  not  if  the  meaning  of  the  past  is  truly  within 
your  sympatliy  ;  not  if  you  perceive  its  associations 
as  feeling  equally  with  knowledge  ;  not  if  you  truly 
kndw  that  its  lessons  are  not  of  death  but  of  life  ! 
To-day  builds  over  the  ruins  of  yesterday,  as  well 
in  the  soul  of  man  as  on  the  vanishing  cities  that 
mark  his  course.  There  need  be  no  regret  that,  in 
this  sense,  the  present  should  obliterate  the  past. 

Much,  however,  as  London  has  changed,  and  con- 
stantly as  it  continues  to  change,  there  still  remain, 
and  long  will  continue  to  remain,  many  objects  that 


Old  Churches  of  London.  1 9 

startle  and  impress  the  sensitive  mind.  Through 
all  its  wide  compass,  by  night  and  day,  there  flows 
and  beats  a  turbulent,  resounding  tide  of  activity, 
and  hundreds  of  trivial  and  vacuous  people,  sordid, 
ignorant,  and  commonplace,  tramp  to  and  fro  amid 
its  storied  antiquities,  heedless  of  their  existence. 
Through  such  siuToundings,  but  finding  here  and 
there  a  sympathetic  guide  or  a  friendly  suggestion, 
the  explorer  must  take  his  way,  —  lonely  in  the 
crowd,  and  walking,  indeed,  like  one  who  lives  in 
a  dream.  Yet  he  never  will  drift  in  vain  through  a 
city  like  this.  I  went,  one  night,  into  the  cloisters 
of  Westminster  Abbey  —  that  part,  the  South 
Walk,  which  is  still  accessible  after  the  gates  have 
been  closed.  The  stars  shone  down  upon  the 
blackening  walls  and  glimmering  windows  of  the 
great  cathedral ;  the  grim,  mysterious  arches  were 
dimly  lighted;  the  stony  pathways,  stretching  away 
beneath  the  venerable  building,  seemed  to  lose 
themselves  in  caverns  of  darkness  ;  not  a  sound 
was  heard  but  the  faint  rustling  of  the  grass  within 
the  close.  Every  stone  here  is  the  mark  of  a  sep- 
ulchre ;  every  breath  of  the  night-wind  seemed  the 
whisper  of  a  gliding  ghost.  Here,  among  the 
crowded  graves,  rest  Anne  Oldfield  and  Anne 
Bracegirdle,  —  in  Queen  Anne's  reign,  such  bril- 
liant luminaries  of  the  stage,  —  and  here  was  bur- 
ied the  dust  of  Aaron  Hill,  poet  and  dramatist, 
the  old  manager  of  Drury  Lane,  who  wrote  "  The 
Fair  Inconstant "  for  Barton  Booth,  and  some  not- 


20  E7tglish  Rajiihles. 

ably  sweet  and  felicitous  love-songs.  Here,  too,  are 
the  relics  of  Susanna  Maria  Arne  (Mrs.  Theo.  Gib- 
ber), Aphra  Behn,  Thomas  Betterton,  and  Spranger 
Barry.  Sitting  upon  the  narrow  ledge  which  was 
the  monks'  rest,  I  could  touch,  close  at  hand,  the 
tomb  of  a  mitred  Abbot,  while  at  my  feet  was  the 
great  stone  that  covers  twenty-six  monks  of  West- 
minster who  perished  by  the  Plague  nearly  six  hun- 
dred years  ago.  It  would  scarcely  be  believed  that 
the  doors  of  dwellings  open  upon  this  gloomy  spot ; 
that  women  may  sometimes  be  seen  tending  flowers 
upon  the  ledges  that  roof  these  cloister  walks- 
Yet  so  it  is  ;  and  in  such  a  place,  at  such  a  time, 
you  comprehend,  better  than  before,  the  self- 
centred,  serious,  ruminant,  romantic  character  of 
the  English  mind,  —  which  loves,  more  than  any- 
thing else  in  the  world,  the  privacy  of  august  sur- 
roundings and  a  sombre  and  stately  solitude.  It 
need  hardly  be  said  that  you  likewise  obtain  here  a 
striking  sense  of  the  power  of  contrast.  I  was 
again  aware  of  this,  a  little  later,  when,  seeing  a  dim 
light  in  St.  Margaret's  Church  near  by,  I  entered 
that  old  temple,  and  found  the  boys  of  the  choir  at 
their  rehearsal,  and  presently  observed  on  the  wall 
a  brass  plate  which  announces  that  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh  was  buried  here,  in  the  chancel,  after  be- 
ing decapitated  for  high  treason  in  the  Palace  Yard 
outside.  Such  things  are  the  surprises  of  this  his- 
toric capital,  —  the  exceeding  great  reward  of  the 
wanderer's   devotion.     This    inscription   begs  the 


Old  Churdics  of  LonJon.  2 1 

reader  to  remember  Raleigh's  virtues  as  well  as  his 
faults,  —  a  plea,  surely,  that  every  man  might  well 
wish  should  be  made  for  himself  at  last.  I  thought 
of  the  verses  that  the  old  warrior-poet  is  said  to 
have  left  in  his  Bible,  when  they  led  him  out  to  die  : 

"  Even  such  is  time  ;  that  takes  in  trust 
Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have, 

And  pays  us  nought  but  age  and  dust ; 
Which,  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 

When  we  have  wandered  all  oiu-  ways, 
Shuts  up  the  story  of  oiu:  days.  — 

But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust. 

My  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust." 

In  St.  Margaret's  1  —  a  storied  haunt,  for  shining 
names  alike  of  nobles  and  poets  —  was  also  buried 
John  Skelton,  another  of  the  old  bards  (obiit  1529), 
the  enemy  and  satirist  of  Cardinal  Wolsey  and  Sir 

1  This  church  contains  a  window,  commemorative  of  Raleigh, 
presented  by  Americans,  and  inscribed  with  these  lines,  by 
Lowell : 

The  New  World's  sons,  from  England's  breast  we  drew 

Such  milk  as  bids  remember  whence  we  came  : 
Proud  of  her  past,  whercfrom  our  future  grew. 
This  window  we  inscribe  with  Raleigh's  name. 

It  also  contains  a  window,  commemorative  of  Caxton,  pre- 
sented by  the  printers  and  publishers  of  London,  which  is  in- 
scribed with  these  lines,  by  Tennyson  : 

Thy  prayer  was  Light  —  more  Light  —  while  Time  shall  last. 

Thou  sawest  a  glory  growing  on  the  night. 
But  not  the  shadows  which  that  light  would  cast 

Till  shadows  vanish  in  the  Liiiht  of  Li:rht. 


22  English  Rambles. 

Thomas  More,  one  of  whom  he  described  as 
"madde  Amaleke,"  and  the  other  as  "dawcock 
doctor."  Their  renown  has  managed  to  survive 
these  terrific  shafts  ;  but  at  least  this  was  a  falcon 
who  flew  at  eagles.  Here  the  poet  Campbell  was 
married,  —  October  nth,  1803.  Such  old  churches 
as  this — guarding  so  well  their  treasures  of  his- 
tory—  are,  in  a  special  sense,  the  traveller's  bless- 
ings. At  St.  Giles's,  Cripplegate,  the  janitor  is  a 
woman ;  and  she  will  point  out  to  you  the  lettered 
stone  that  formerly  marked  the  grave  of  Milton.  It 
is  in  the  nave,  but  it  has  been  moved  to  a  place 
about  twelve  feet  from  its  original  position,  —  the 
remains  of  the  illustrious  poet  being,  in  fact, 
beneath  the  floor  of  a  pew,  on  the  left  of  the  cen- 
tral aisle,  about  the  middle  of  the  church :  albeit 
there  is  a  story,  possibly  true,  that,  on  an  occasion 
when  this  church  was  repaired,  in  August,  1790, 
the  coffin  of  Milton  suffered  profanation,  and  his 
bones  were  dispersed.  Among  the  monuments 
hard  by  is  a  fine  marble  bust  of  Milton,  placed 
against  the  wall,  and  it  is  said,  by  way  of  enhancing 
its  value,  that  George  the  Third  came  here  to  see 
it.  Several  of  the  neighbouring  inscriptions  are  of 
astonishing  quaintness.  They  claim  the  dust  of 
Daniel  De  Foe  for  this  church,  but  cannot  desig- 
nate his  grave.  The  adjacent  churchyard  —  a 
queer,  irregular,  sequestered,  lonesome  bit  of  grassy 
ground,  teeming  with  monuments,  and  hemmed  in 
with  houses,  terminates,  at  one  end,  in  a  piece  of 


Old  Churches  of  London.  23 

the  old  Roman  wall  of  London  (A.  D.  306),  —  an 
adamantine  structure  of  cemented  flints  —  which 
has  lasted  from  the  days  of  Julius  Caesar,  and  which 
bids  fair  to  last  forever.  I  shall  always  remember 
this  strange  nook  with  the  golden  light  of  a  summer 
morning  shining  upon  it,  the  birds  twittering  among 
its  graves,  and  all  around  it  such  an  atmosphere  of 
solitude  and  rest  as  made  it  seem,  though  in  the 
heart  of  the  great  city,  a  thousand  miles  from  any 
haunt  of  man. 

At  St.  Helen's,  Bishopgate,  also,  the  janitor  is 
a  woman,  and  one  who  knows  and  loves  every 
monument  in  this  ancient  and  venerable  temple  — 
the  church  of  the  priory  of  the  nuns  of  St.  Helen, 
built  in  the  thirteenth  century,  and  full  of  relics  of 
the  history  of  England.  The  priory,  which  ad- 
joined this  church,  has  long  since  disappeared,  and 
portions  of  the  building  have  been  restored ;  but 
the  noble  Gothic  columns  and  the  commemorative 
sculpture  remain  unchanged.  Here  are  the  tombs 
of  Sir  John  Crosby,  who  built  Crosby  Place  (1466), 
Sir  Thomas  Gresham,  who  founded  both  Gresham 
College  and  the  Royal  Exchange  in  London,  and 
Sir  William  Pickering,  once  Queen  Elizabeth's 
Minister  to  Spain  and  one  of  the  amorous  aspirants 
for  her  royal  hand  ;  and  here,  in  a  gloomy  chapel, 
stands  the  veritable  altar  at  which  the  cruel  and 
crafty  Duke  of  Gloster  received  absolution,  after 
he  had  despatched  the  princes  to  the  Tower. 
Standing  at  that  altar,  in  the  cool  silence  of  the 


24  English  Rambles. 

lonely  church  and  the  waning  light  of  afternoon,  it 
was  easy  to  conjure  up  his  slender,  misshapen  form, 
decked  out  in  the  rich  apparel  that  he  loved,  his 
handsome,  aquiline,  thoughtful  face,  the  drooping 
head,  the  glittering,  baleful  eyes,  the  nervous  hand 
that  toyed  with  the  dagger,  and  the  stealthy  still- 
ness of  his  person,  from  head  to  foot,  as  he  knelt 
there  before  the  priest  and  mocked  himself  and 
heaven  with  the  form  of  prayer.  Every  place  that 
Richard  touched  is  haunted  by  his  magnetic  pres- 
ence :  no  place  more  strangely  so  than  this!  In 
another  part  of  the  church  you  are  shown  the  tomb 
of  a  knight  whose  will  provided  that  the  key  of  his 
sepulchre  should  be  placed  beside  his  body,  and  that 
the  door  should  be  opened  once  a  year,  for  a  hun- 
dred years.  It  seems  to  have  been  his  expectation 
to  awake  and  arise  ;  but  the  allotted  century  has 
passed  and  his  knightly  bones  are  still  quiescent. 

How  calmly  they  sleep  —  these  warriors  who  once 
filled  the  world  with  the  tumult  of  their  deeds  !  If 
you  go  into  Saint  Mary's,  in  the  Temple,  —  one  of 
the  noblest  Gothic  buildings  in  England,  —  you  will 
stand  above  the  dust  of  the  Crusaders,  and  mark 
the  beautiful  copper  effigies  of  them,  recumbent  on 
the  marble  pavement,  and  feel  and  know,  as  per- 
haps you  never  did  before,  the  calm  that  follows  the 
tempest.  Saint  Mary's  was  built  in  1240,  and  re- 
stored in  1828.  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  love- 
lier specimen  of  Norman  Gothic  architecture  —  at 
once  massive  and  airy,  perfectly  simjDle,  yet  rich 


Old  Churches  of  London.  25 

witfi  beauty,  in  every  line  and  scroll.  There  is  only 
one  other  cliurch  in  Great  Britain,  it  is  said,  which 
has,  like  this,  a  circular  vestibule.  The  stained 
glass  windows,  both  here  and  at  St.  Helen's,  are 
very  glorious.  The  organ  at  St.  Mary's  was  se- 
lected by  Jeffries,  afterwards  infamous  as  the  wicked 
judge.  The  pilgrim  who  pauses  to  muse  at  the 
grave  of  Goldsmith  may  often  hear  its  solemn, 
mournful  tones.  I  heard  them  thus,  and  was  think- 
ing of  Doctor  Johnson's  tender  words,  when  he 
first  learned  that  Goldsmith  was  dead:  "Poor 
Goldy  was  wild  —  very  wild  —  but  he  is  so  no 
more."  The  room  in  which  he  died,  a  broken- 
hearted man  at  only  forty-six,  was  but  a  little  way 
from  the  spot  where  he  sleeps. ^  The  noises  of 
Fleet  Street  are  heard  there  only  as  a  distant  mur- 
mur. But  birds  chirp  over  him,  and  leaves  flutter 
down  upon  his  tomb,  and  every  breeze  that  sighs 
around  the  gray  turrets  of  the  ancient  Temple 
breathes  out  his  requiem. 

I  No.  2  Brick  Court,  Middle  Temple. —In  1 75 7-5S  Gold- 
smith was  employed  by  a  chemist,  near  Fish  Street  Hill. 
When  he  wrote  his  "  Inquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Polite 
Learning  in  Europe"  he  was  living  in  Green  Arbour  Court, 
"  over  Break-neck  Steps."  At  a  lodging  in  Wine  Office  Court, 
Fleet  Street,  he  wrote  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield."  Afterwards 
he  had  lodgings  at  Canonbury  House,  Islington,  and  in  1764,  in 
the  Librar>'  Staircase  of  the  Inner  Temple. 


III. 


LITERARY  SHRINES  OF  LONDON. 


THE  mind  that  can  reverence  historic  associa- 
tions needs  no  explanation  of  the  charm  that 
such  associations  possess.  There  are  streets  and 
houses  in  London  which,  for  pilgrims  of  this  class, 
are  haunted  with  memories  and  hallowed  with  an  im- 
perishable light — that  not  even  the  dreary  common- 
ness of  every-day  life  can  quench  or  dim.  Almost 
every  great  author  in  English  literature  has  here 
left  behind  him  some  personal  trace,  some  relic  that 
brings  us  at  once  into  his  living  presence.  In  the 
days  of  Shakespeare, — of  whom  it  maybe  noted 
that  wherever  you  find  him  at  all  you  find  him  in 
select  and  elegant  neighbourhoods,  —  Bishopgate 
was  a  retired  and  aristocratic  quarter  of  the  town  ; 


Literary  Shrines  of  London.  27 

and  here  the  poet  had  his  residence,  convenient  to 
the  theatre  in  Blackfriars,  of  which  he  was  an 
owner.  It  is  said  that  he  dwelt  very  near  to  Crosby 
Place,  and  certainly  he  saw  that  building  in  its 
splendour,  and,  no  doubt,  was  often  in  St.  Helen's 
Church,  near  by;  and  upon  this  spot,  —  amid  all 
the  din  of  traffic  and  all  the  strange  adjuncts  of  a 
new  age,  — those  who  love  him  are  in  his  company. 
Milton  was  born  in  a  court  adjacent  to  Bread  Street, 
Cheapside,  and  the  explorer  comes  upon  him  as  a 
resident  in  St.  Bride's  Churchyard,  —  where  the 
poet  Lovelace  was  buried,  —  and  at  the  house  which 
is  now  No.  19  York  Street,  Queen's  Square  (in  later 
times  occupied  by  Bentham  and  by  Hazlitt),  and 
in  Jewin  Street,  Aldersgate.  When  Secretary  to 
Cromwell  he  lived  in  Scotland  Yard,  where  now  is 
the  headquarters  of  the  London  police.  His  last 
home  was  in  Artillery  Walk,  Bunliill  Fields,  but  the 
visitor  to  that  ground  finds  it  covered  by  the  Artillery 
Barracks.  Walking  through  King  Street,  Westmin- 
ster, you  will  not  forget  Edmund  Spenser,  who  died 
there,  in  grief  and  destitution,  a  victim  to  the  same 
inhuman  spirit  of  Irish  ruffianism  which  is  still  dis- 
gracing humanity  and  troubling  the  peace  of  the 
world.  Everybody  remembers  Ben  Jonson's  terse 
record  of  this  calamity  :  "  The  Irish  having  robbed 
Spenser's  goods  and  burnt  his  house  and  a  little 
child  new-born,  he  and  his  wife  escaped,  and  after 
he  died,  for  lack  of  bread,  in  King  Street."  Jonson 
himself  is  closely  and  charmingly  associated  with 


28  English  Rambles. 

places  that  may  still  be  seen.  He  passed  his  boy- 
hood near  Charing  Cross  —  having  been  born  in 
Hartshorne  Lane,  now  Northumberland  Street  — 
and  went  to  the  parish  school  of  St.  Martin's-in-the- 
Fields  ;  and  those  who  roam  around  Lincoln's  Inn 
will  surely  call  to  mind  that  this  great  poet  helped 
to  build  it  —  a  trowel  in  one  hand  and  Horace  in 
the  other.  His  residence,  in  his  days  of  fame,  was 
just  outside  of  Temple  Bar  —  but  all  that  neigh- 
bourhood is  new  at  the  present  day. 

The  Mermaid,  which  he  frequented  — with  Shake- 
speare, Fletcher,  Herrick,  Chapman,  and  Donne  — 
was  in  Bread  Street,  but  no  trace  of  it  remains ;  and 
a  banking  house  (Child's  Bank)  stands  now  on  the 
site  of  the  Devil  Tavern,  in  Fleet  Street,  where  the 
Apollo  Club,  which  he  founded,  used  to  meet.  The 
famous  inscription,  "  O  rare  Ben  Jonson,"  is  three 
times  cut  in  the  Abbey  —  once  in  Poets'  Corner, 
and  twice  in  the  north  aisle  where  he  was  buried, 
the  smaller  of  the  two  slabs  marking  the  place  of 
his  vertical  grave.  Dryden  once  dwelt  in  a  narrow, 
dingy,  quaint  little  house,  in  Fetter  Lane,  —  the 
street  in  which  Dean  Swift  has  placed  the  home  of 
Gulliver,  and  where  now  the  famous  Doomsday 
Book  is  kept,  —  but  later  he  removed  to  a  finer 
dwelling,  in  Gerrard  Street,  Soho,  which  was  the 
scene  of  his  death.  Both  buildings  are  marked 
with  mural  tablets,  and  neither  of  them  seems  to 
have  undergone  much  change.  Edmund  Burke's 
house,  also  in  Gerrard  Street,  is  let  in  lodgings  and 


Literary  Shrines  of  London.  29 

llrcnsed  to  sell  beer;  but  his  memory  hallows  the 
place,  and  an  inscription  upon  it  proudly  announces 
th.it  here  he  lived.  Dr.  Johnson's  house  in  Gough 
Square  bears  likewise  a  mural  tablet,  and,  standing 
at  its  time-worn  threshold,  the  visitor  needs  no  ef- 
fort of  fancy  to  picture  that  uncouth  figure  sliam- 
bling  through  the  crooked  lanes  that  lead  into  this 
queer,  sombre,  confined,  and  melancholy  retreat. 
In  this  house  he  wrote  the  first  Dictionary  of  the 
English  language,  and  the  immortal  letter  to  Lord 
Chesterfield.  In  Gough  Square  lived  and  died 
Hugh  Kelly,  dramatist,  author  of  "The  School  of 
Wives"  and  "The  Man  of  Reason,"  and  one  of 
the  friends  of  Goldsmith,  at  whose  burial  he  was 
present.  The  historical  antiquarian  society  that 
has  marked  these  literary  shrines  of  London  has, 
surely,  rendered  a  great  service.  The  houses  as- 
sociated with  Reynolds  and  Hogarth,  in  Leicester 
Square,  Byron,  in  Holies  Street,  Benjamin  Franklin 
and  Peter  the  Great,  in  Craven  Street,  Campbell,  in 
Duke  Street,  St.  James's,  Garrick,  in  the  Adelphi 
Terrace,  and  Mrs.  Siddons,  in  Baker  Street,  are  but 
a  few  of  the  historic  spots  which  are  thus  commem- 
orated. Much,  however,  yet  remains  to  be  done. 
One  would  like  to  know,  for  instance,  in  which 
room  in  "  The  Albany "  it  was  that  Byron  wrote 
"  Lara,"  ^  in  which  of  the  houses  in  Buckingham 

'  Byron  was  bom  at  \o.  24  Hoiks  Street,  Cavendish  Square. 
While  he  was  at  school  in  Dulwich  Grove  his  mother  lived  in  a 
house  in  Sloane  Terrace.     Other  houses  associated  with  him  are 


30  English  Ra7nhlcs. 

Street  Coleridge  had  his  lodging,  while  he  was 
translating  "  Wallenstein  "  ;  whereabouts  in  Blooms- 
bury  Square  was  the  residence  of  Akenside,  who 
wrote  "The  Pleasures  of  Imagination,"  and  of 
Croly,  who  wrote  "  Salathiel  "  ;  or  where  it  was  that 
Gray  lived,  when  he  established  himself  close  by 
Russell  Square,  in  order  to  be  one  of  the  first,  —  as  he 
continued  to  be  one  of  the  most  constant,  —  students 
at  the  then  newly  opened  British  Museum  (1759). 
These,  and  such  as  these,  may  seem  trivial  things; 
but  Nature  has  denied  an  unfailing  source  of  inno- 
cent happiness  to  the  man  who  can  find  no  pleasure 
in  them.  For  my  part,  when  rambling  in  Fleet 
Street,  it  is  a  special  delight  to  remember  even  so 
slight  an  incident  as  that  recorded  of  the  author  of 
the  "  Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard,"  —  that  he 
once  saw  here  his  satirist.  Dr.  Johnson,  rolling  and 
puffing  along  the  sidewalk,  and  cried  out  to  a  friend, 
"Here  comes  Ursa  Major."  For  the  true  lovers 
of  literature  "Ursa  Major"  walks  oftener  in  Fleet 
Street  to-day  than  any  living  man. 

A  good  thread  of  literary  research  might  be  profit- 
No.  8  St.  James  Street ;  a  lod,a;ing  in  Bennet  Street ;  No.  2  "  The 
Albany  "  —  a  lodging  that  he  rented  of  Lord  Althorpe,  and 
moved  into  on  March  2Sth,  1S14 ;  and  No.  13  Piccadilly  Terrace, 
where  his  daughter,  Ada,  was  born,  and  where  Lady  Byron  left 
him.  John  Murray's  house,  where  his  fragment  of  Autobiog- 
raphy was  burned,  was  in  Albemarle  Street.  Byron's  body,  when 
brought  home  from  Greece,  lay  in  state  at  No.  25  Great  George 
Street,  Westminster,  before  being  taken  north,  to  Hucknall- 
Torkard  Church,  in  Nottinghamshire,  for  burial. 


Literary  Shrines  of  London.  3 1 

ably  followed  by  him  who  should  trace  the  footsteps 
of  all  the  poets  that  have  held,  in  England,  the 
office  of  laureate.  John  Kay  was  laureate  in  the 
reign  of  Edward  IV^;  Andrew  Bernard  in  that  of 
Henry  VII. ;  John  Skelton  in  that  of  Henry  VI  H.  ; 
and  Edmund  Spenser  in  that  of  Elizabeth.  Since 
then  the  succession  has  included  the  names  of 
Samuel  Daniel,  Michael  Drayton,  Ben  Jonson, 
Sir  William  Davenant,  John  Dryden,  Thomas 
Shadwell,  Naiium  Tate,  Nicholas  Rowe,  Lawrence 
Eusden,  Colley  Cibber,  Wiiliam  Whitehead,  Thomas 
Warton,  Henry  James  Pye,  Robert  Southey, 
William  Wordsworth,  and  Alfred  Tennyson  —  the 
latter  still  wearing,  in  spotless  renown,  that 
"  Laurel  greener  from  the  brows 
Of  him  that  uttered  nothing  base." 

Most  of  these  bards  were  intimately  associated 
with  London,  and  several  of  them  are  buried  in  the 
Abbey.  It  is,  indeed,  because  so  many  storied 
names  are  written  upon  gravestones  that  the  ex- 
plorer of  the  old  churches  of  London  finds  so  rich  a 
harvest  of  impressive  association  and  lofty  thought. 
Few  persons  visit  them,  and  you  are  likely  to  find 
yourself  comparatively  alone  in  rambles  of  this  kind. 
I  went  one  morning  into  St.  Martin's — once  "in 
the  fields,"  now  in  one  of  the  busiest  thoroughfares 
at  the  centre  of  the  city  —  and  found  there  only  a 
pew-opener  preparing  for  the  service,  and  an  organ- 
ist playing  an  anthem.  It  is  a  beautiful  structure, 
with  its  graceful  spire  and  its  columns  of  weather- 


32  English  Rambles. 

beaten  stone,  curiously  stained  in  gray  and  sooty 
black,  and  it  is  almost  as  famous  for  theatrical 
names  as  St.  Paul's,  Covent  Garden,  or  St.  George's, 
Bloomsbury,  or  St.  Clement-le-Danes.  Here,  in  a 
vault  beneath  the  church,  was  buried  the  bewitching 
and  large-hearted  Nell  Gwyn  ;  here  is  the  grave  of 
James  Smith,  joint  author  with  his  brother  Horace, 
—  who  was  buried  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  —  of  "  The 
Rejected  Addresses  "  ;  here  rests  Yates,  the  original 
Sir  Oliver  Surface ;  and  here  were  laid  the  ashes 
of  the  romantic  and  brilliant  Mrs.  Centlivre,  and 
of  George  Farquhar,  whom  neither  youth,  genius, 
patient  labour,  nor  splendid  achievement  could  save 
from  a  life  of  misfortune  and  an  untimely  and  pite- 
ous death.  A  cheerier  association  of  this  church 
is  with  Thomas  Moore,  the  great  poet  of  Ireland, 
who  was  here  married.  At  St.  Giles's-in-the-Fields, 
again,  are  the  graves  of  George  Chapman,  who  trans- 
lated Homer,  Andrew  Marvel,  who  wrote  such  lovely 
lyrics  of  love.  Rich,  the  manager,  who  brought  out 
Gay's  "  Beggar's  Opera,"  and  James  Shirley,  the  fine 
old  dramatist  and  poet,  whose  immortal  couplet  has 
been  so  often  murmured  in  such  solemn  haunts  as 

these : 

"  Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet  and  blossom  in  the  dust." 

Shirley  lived  in  Gray's  Inn  when  he  was  writing 
his  plays,  and  he  was  fortunate  in  the  favour  of 
Queen  Henrietta  Maria,  wife  to  Charles  the  First ; 
but,  when  the  Puritan  times  came  in,  he  fell  into 


Literary  Shrines  of  London.  t^Z 

misfortune  and  poverty  and  became  a  school-teacher 
in  Whitefriars,  In  1666  he  was  living  in  or  near 
Fleet  Street,  and  his  home  was  one  of  the  many  dwell- 
ings that  were  destroyed  in  the  Great  Fire.  Then  he 
fled,  with  his  wife,  into  the  parish  of  St.  Giles's-in- 
the- Fields,  where,  overcome  with  grief  and  terror, 
tiiey  both  died,  within  twenty-four  hours  of  each 
other,  and  they  were  buried  in  the  same  grave. 


IV. 


A   HAUNT   OF   EDMUND    KEAN. 


TO  muse  over  the  graves  of  those  about  whom 
we  have  read  so  much  —  the  great  actors, 
thinkers,  and  writers,  the  warriors  and  statesmen 
for  whom  the  play  is  ended  and  the  h'ghts  are  put 
out  —  is  to  come  very  near  to  them,  and  to  reah'ze 
more  deeply  than  ever  before  their  close  relationship 
with  our  own  humanity;  and  we  ought  to  be  wiser 
and  better  for  this  experience.  It  is  good,  also,  to 
seek  out  the  favourite  haunts  of  our  heroes,  and  call 
them  up  as  they  were  in  their  lives.  One  of  the 
happiest  accidents  of  a  London  stroll  was  the  find- 
ing of  the  Harp  Tavern,^  in  Russell  Street,  Covent 

1  An  account  of  the  "  Harp,"  which  I  have  lately  found,  in 
the  "  Victuallers'  Gazette,"  says  that  this  tavern  has  had  within 


A  Haunt  of  EdmiinJ  Kcan.  35 

Garden,  near  the  sta'^e  door  of  Driiry  Lane  Theatre, 
which  was  the  accustomed  resort  of  Edmund  Kean. 
Carpenters  and  masons  were  at  work  upon  it  when 
I  entered,  and  it  was  necessary  almost  to  creep 
amid  heaps  of  broken  mortar  and  ruijbish  beneath 
their  scaffolds,  in  order  to  reach  the  interior  rooms. 
Here,  at  the  end  of  a  narrow  passage,  was  a  little 
apartment,  perliaps  fifteen  feet  square,  with  a  low 
ceiling  and  a  bare  floor,  in  which  Kean  habitually 
took  his  pleasure,  in  the  society  of  fellow  actors 
and  boon  companions,  long  ago.  A  narrow,  cush- 
ioned bench  against  the  walls,  a  few  small  tables, 
a  chair  or  two,  a  number  of  church-warden  pipes 
on  the  mantelpiece,  and  portraits  of  Disraeli  and 
Gladstone,  constituted  the  furniture.  A  panelled 
wainscot  and  dingy  red  paper  covered  the  walls, 
and  a  few  cobwebs  hung  from  the  grimy  ceiling. 
By  this  time  the  old  room  has  been  cleaned,  re- 
papered  and  made  spruce  and  tidy ;  but  then  it 
bore  all  the  marks  of  hard  usage  and  long  neglect, 
and  it  seemed  all  the  more  interesting  for  that 
reason. 

Kean's  seat  is  at  the  right,  as  you  enter,  and  just 
above  it  a  mural  tablet  designates  the  spot,  —  which 

its  doors  every  actor  of  note  since  the  days  of  Garrick,  and  many 
actresses,  also,  of  the  period  of  eighty  or  a  hundred  years  ago  ; 
and  it  mentions  as  visitants  here  Dora  Jordan,  Nance  Oldfield, 
Anne  Bracegirdlc,  Kitty  Clive,  Harriet  Mellon,  Barton  Bootli, 
Quin,  Gibber,  Macklin,  Grimaldi,  Mme.  Vestris,  and  Miss 
Stephens,  —  who  became  the  Countess  of  Essex. 


36  English  Ra7)ibles. 

is  still  further  commemorated  by  a  death-mask  of 
the  actor,  placed  on  a  little  shelf  of  dark  wood  and 
covered  with  glass.  No  better  portrait  could  be 
desired  ;  certainly  no  better  one  exists.  In  hfe  this 
must  have  been  a  glorious  face.  The  eyes  are 
large  and  prominent,  the  brow  is  broad  and  fine, 
the  mouth  wide  and  obviously  sensitive,  the  chin 
delicate,  and  the  nose  long,  well-set,  and  indicative 
of  immense  force  of  character.  The  whole  expres- 
sion of  the  face  is  that  of  refinement  and  of  great 
and  desolate  sadness.  Kean,  as  is  known  from 
the  testimony  of  one  who  acted  with  him,^  was  al- 
ways at  his  best  in  passages  of  pathos.  To  hear 
him  speak  Othello's  Farewell  was  to  hear  the  perfect 
music  of  heart-broken  despair.  To  see  him  when, 
as  The  Stranger,  he  listened  to  the  song,  was  to 
see,  through  tears,  the  genuine,  absolute  reahty  of 
hopeless  sorrow.  He  could,  of  course,  thrill  man- 
kind in  the  ferocious  outbursts  of  Richard  ^^vi^  Sir 
Giles,  but  it  was  in  tenderness  and  grief  that  he 
was  supremely  great ;  and  no  one  will  wonder  at 
this,  who  looks  upon  his  noble  face  —  so  eloquent 

1  The  mother  of  Jefferson,  the  comedian,  described  Edmund 
Kean  in  this  way.  She  was  a  member  of  the  company  at  the 
Walnut  Street  Theatre,  Philadelphia,  when  he  acted  there,  and 
it  was  she  who  sang  for  hhn  the  well-known  lines  : 

"  I  have  a  silent  sorrow  here, 
A  grief  I  '11  ne'er  imiiart ; 
It  breathes  no  sigh,  it  sheds  no  tear, 
But  it  consumes  ray  heart." 


A  Haunt  of  Edmund  Kcan.  37 

of  self-conflict  and  suffering  —  even  in  this  cold 
and  colourless  mask  of  death.  It  is  easy  to  judge 
and  condemn  the  sins  of  a  weak,  passionate  hu- 
manity ;  but  when  we  think  of  such  creatures  of 
genius  as  Edmund  Kean  and  Robert  Burns  we 
ought  to  consider  what  demons  in  their  own  souls 
those  wretched  men  were  forced  to  fight,  and  by 
what  agonies  they  expiated  their  vices  and  errors. 
This  little  tavern-room  tells  the  whole  mournful 
story,  with  death  to  point  the  moral,  and  pity  to 
breathe  its  sigh  of  unavailing  regret. 

Many  of  the  present  frequenters  of  the  Harp  are 
elderly  men,  whose  conversation  is  enriched  with 
memories  of  the  stage  and  with  ample  knowledge 
and  judicious  taste  in  literature  and  art.  They 
naturally  speak  with  pride  of  Kean's  association 
with  their  favourite  resort.  Often  in  that  room  the 
eccentric  genius  has  put  himself  in  pawn,  to  exact 
from  the  manager  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  the 
money  needed  to  relieve  the  wants  of  some  brother 
actor.  Often  his  voice  has  been  heard  there,  in 
the  songs  that  he  sang  with  so  much  feeling  and 
sweetness  and  such  homely  yet  beautiful  skill.  In 
the  circles  of  the  learned  and  courtly  he  never  was 
really  at  home ;  but  here  he  filled  the  throne  and 
ruled  the  kingdom  of  the  revel,  and  here  no  doubt 
every  mood  of  his  mind,  from  high  thought  and 
generous  emotion  to  misanthropical  bitterness  and 
vacant  levity,  found  its  unfettered  expression. 
They  show  you  a  broken  panel  in  tlie  high  wain- 


38  English  Rambles. 

scot,  which  was  struck  and  smashed  by  a  pewter 
pot,  that  he  hurled  at  the  head  of  a  person  who 
had  given  him  offence  ;  and  they  tell  you,  at  the 
same  time, — as,  indeed,  is  historically  true,  — that 
he  was  the  idol  of  his  comrades,  the  first  in  love, 
pity,  sympathy,  and  kindness,  and  would  turn  his 
back,  any  day,  for  the  least  of  them,  on  the  nobles 
who  sought  his  companionship.  There  is  no 
better  place  than  this  in  which  to  study  the  life  of 
Edmund  Kean.  Old  men  may  be  met  with  here, 
who  saw  him  on  the  stage,  and  even  acted  with  him. 
The  room  is  the  weekly  meeting-place  and  habitual 
nightly  tryst  of  an  ancient  club,  called  the  City  of 
Lushington,  which  has  existed  since  the  days  of 
the  Regency,  and  of  which  these  persons  are  mem- 
bers. The  City  has  its  Mayor,  Sheriff,  insignia, 
record-book,  and  system  of  ceremonials  ;  and  much 
of  wit,  wisdom,  and  song  may  be  enjoyed  at  its 
civic  feasts.  The  names  of  its  four  wards — Lu- 
nacy, Suicide,  Poverty,  and  Juniper  —  are  written 
up  in  the  four  corners  of  the  room,  and  whoever 
joins  must  select  his  ward.  Sheridan  was  a  mem- 
ber of  it,  and  so  was  the  Regent ;  and  the  present 
landlord  of  the  Harp  [Mr.  McPherson]  preserves 
among  his  relics  the  chairs  in  Avhich  these  gay 
companions  sat,  when  the  author  presided  over  the 
initiation  of  the  prince.  It  is  thought  that  this  club 
originated,  in  fact,  out  of  the  society  of  "  The 
Wolves,"  which  was  formed  by  Kean's  adherents, 
when  the  elder  Booth  arose  to  disturb  his  suprem- 


A  Haunt  of  Eihnund  Kcan.  39 

acy  upon  the  stage.  But  there  is  no  malignity  in 
it  now.  Its  purposes  are  simply  convivial  and  lit- 
erary, and  its  tone  is  that  of  thorough  good-will. 

One  of  the  gentlest  and  most  winning  traits  in 
the  English  character  is  its  instinct  of  companion- 
ship as  to  literature  and  art.  Since  tlie  days  of  the 
Mermaid,  the  authors  and  actors  of  London  have 
dearly  loved  and  deeply  enjoyed  such  odd  Httle 
fraternities  of  wit  as  are  typified,  not  inaptly,  by 
the  City  of  Lushington.  f  here  are  no  rosier  hours 
in  my  memory  than  those  that  were  passed,  be- 
tween midnight  and  morning,  in  the  cosey  rooms  of 
the  Beefsteak  Club,  in  London.  And,  when  dark 
days  come,  and  foes  harass,  and  the  troubles  of  life 
annoy,  it  will  be  sweet  to  think  that,  in  still  another 
sacred  retreat  of  friendship,  across  the  sea,  the 
old  armour  is  gleaming  in  the  festal  lights,  where 
one  of  the  gentlest  spirits  that  ever  wore  the  laurel 
of  England's  love  smiles  kindly  on  his  comrades 
and  seems  to  murmur  the  mystical  spell  of  English 
hospitality: 

"  Let  no  one  take  beyond  this  threshold  hence, 
Words  uttered  here  in  friendship's  confidence." 


V. 


STOKE   POGIS   AND   THOMAS    GRAY. 


IT  is  a  cool  afternoon  in  July,  and  the  shadows 
are  falling  eastward  on  fields  of  waving  grain 
and  lawns  of  emerald  velvet.  Overhead  a  few  light 
clouds  are  drifting,  and  the  green  boughs  of  the 
great  elms  are  gently  stirred  by  a  breeze  from  the 
west.  Across  one  of  the  more  distant  fields  a  flock 
of  sable  rooks  —  some  of  them  fluttering  and  caw- 
ing—  wings  its  slow  and  melancholy  flight.  There 
is  the  sound  of  the  whetting  of  a  scythe,  and,  near 
by,  the  twittering  of  many  birds  upon  a  cottage 
roof.  On  either  side  of  the  country  road,  which 
runs  like  a  white  rivulet  through  banks  of  green, 
the  hawthorn  hedges  are  shining,  and  the  bright 
sod  is  spangled  with  all  the  wild  flowers  of  an  Eng- 


Stoke  Pogis  and  Thomas  Gray.  41 

lish  summer.  An  odour  of  lime-trees  and  of  new- 
mown  hay  sweetens  the  air,  for  miles  and  miles 
around.  Far  off,  on  the  horizon's  verge,  just  glim- 
mering through  the  haze,  rises  the  imperial  citadel 
of  Windsor.  And  close  at  hand  a  little  child  points 
to  a  gray  spire  peering  out  of  a  nest  of  ivy,  and  tells 
me  that  this  is  Stoke  Pogis  Church. 

If  peace  dwells  anj^vhere  upon  tliis  earth,  its 
dwelling-place  is  here.  You  come  into  this  little 
churchyard  by  a  pathway  across  the  park,  and 
through  a  wooden  turnstile  ;  and  in  one  moment 
the  whole  world  is  left  behind  and  forgotten.  Here 
are  the  nodding  elms  ;  here  is  the  yew-tree's  shade ; 
here  "  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap." 
All  these  graves  seem  very  old.  The  long  grass 
waves  over  them,  and  some  of  the  low  stones  that 
mark  them  are  entirely  shrouded  with  ivy.  Many 
of  the  "frail  memorials"  are  made  of  wood.  None 
of  them  is  neglected  or  forlorn,  but  all  of  them  seem 
to  have  been  scattered  here,  in  that  sweet  disorder 
which  is  the  perfection  of  rural  loveliness.  There 
never,  of  course,  could  have  been  any  thought  of 
creating  this  effect ;  yet  here  it  remains,  to  win 
your  heart  forever.  And  here,  amid  this  mournful 
beauty,  the  little  church  itself  nestles  close  to  the 
ground,  while  every  tree  that  waves  its  branches 
around  it,  and  every  vine  that  clambers  on  its  sur- 
face, seems  to  clasp  it  in  the  arTns  of  love.  Noth- 
ing breaks  the  silence  but  the  sighing  of  the  wind 
in  the  great  yew-tree,  at  the  church  door,  —  beneath 


42  English  Rambles. 

which  was  the  poet's  favourite  seat,  and  where  the 
brown  needles,  faUing,  through  many  an  autumn, 
have  made  a  dense  carpet  on  tlie  turf.  Now  and 
then  there  is  a  faint  rustle  in  the  ivy  ;  a  fitlul  bird- 
note  serves  but  to  deepen  the  stillness  ;  and  from  a 
rose-tree  near  at  hand  a  few  leaves  flutter  down,  in 
soundless  benediction  ou  the  dust  beneath. 

Gray  was  laid  in  the  same  grave  witii  his  mother, 
"  the  careful,  tender  motlier  of  many  children,  one 
alone  of  whom,"  as  he  wrote  upon  her  gravestone, 
"had  the  misfortune  to  survive  her."  Their  tomb 
—  a  low,  oblong,  brick  structure,  covered  with  a 
large  slab  —  stands  a  few  feet  away  from  the  church 
wall,  upon  which  is  a  small  tablet  to  denote  its  place. 
The  poet's  name  has  not  been  inscribed  above  him. 
There  was  no  need  here  of  '"storied  urn  or  ani- 
mated bust."  The  place  is  his  monument,  and  the 
majestic  Elegy  —  giving  to  the  soul  of  the  place  a 
form  of  seraphic  beauty  and  a  voice  of  celestial 
music  —  is  his  immortal  epitaph  : 

*'  Here  scattered  oft,  the  earliest  of  the  year, 

By  hands  unseen  are  showers  of  violets  found  ; 
The  red-breast  loves  to  build  and  warble  here. 
And  little  footsteps  lightly  print  the  ground." 

There  is  a  monument  to  Gray  in  Stoke  Park, 
about  two  hundred  yards  from  the  church  ;  but  it 
seems  commemorative  of  the  builder  rather  than 
the  poet.  They  intend  to  set  a  memorial  window 
in  the  church,  to  honour  him,  and  the  visitor  finds 
there  a  money-box  for  the  reception  of  contribu- 


S/o/ce  Pogis  and  Thomas  Gray.         43 

tions  in  aid  of  this  pious  design.  Notiiing  will  be 
done  amiss  that  serves  to  direct  closer  attention  to 
his  life.  It  was  one  of  the  best  lives  ever  recorded 
in  the  history  of  literature.  It  was  a  life  singularly 
pure,  noble,  and  beautiful.  In  two  qualities,  sin- 
cerity and  reticence,  it  was  exemplary  almost  be- 
yond a  parallel ;  and  those  are  qualities  which 
literary  character  in  the  present  day  has  great  need 
to  acquire.  Gray  was  averse  to  publicity.  He  did 
not  sway  by  the  censure  of  other  men ;  neither  did 
he  need  their  admiration  as  his  breath  of  life. 
Poetry,  to  him,  was  a  great  art ;  and  he  added 
nothing  to  literature  until  he  had  first  made  it  as 
nearly  perfect  as  it  could  be  made  by  the  thought- 
ful, laborious  exertion  of  his  best  powers,  su]5er- 
added  to  the  spontaneous  impulse  and  flow  of  his 
genius.  More  voluminous  writers,  Charles  Dick- 
ens among  the  rest,  have  sneered  at  him  because 
he  wrote  so  little.  The  most  colossal  form  of 
human  conceit,  probably,  is  that  of  the  individual 
who  thinks  all  otiier  creatures  inferior  who  happen 
to  be  unlike  himself.  This  reticence  on  the  part 
of  Gray  was,  in  fact,  the  grand  emblem  of  his  sin- 
cerity and  the  corner-stone  of  his  imperishable 
renown.  There  is  a  better  thing  than  the  great 
man  who  is  always  speaking;  and  that  is  the  great 
man  who  only  speaks  when  he  has  a  great  word  to 
say.  Gray  has  left  only  a  few  poems  ;  but,  of  his 
principal  works,  each  is  perfect  in  its  kind,  supreme 
and  unapproachable.     He  did  not  test  merit  by  ref- 


44  English  Rambles. 

erenceto  ill-informed  and  capricious  public  opinion, 
but  he  wrought  according  to  the  highest  standards 
of  art  that  learning  and  taste  could  furnish.  His 
Letters  form  an  English  classic.  There  is  no  better 
prose  in  existence  ;  there  is  not  much  that  is  so 
good.  But  the  crowning  glory  of  Gray's  nature, 
the  element  that  makes  it  so  impressive,  the  charm 
that  brings  the  pilgrim  to  Stoke  Pogis  Church  to 
muse  upon  it,  was  the  self-poised,  sincere,  and 
lovely  exaltation  of  its  contemplative  spirit.  He 
was  a  man  whose  conduct  of  life  would,  first  of  all, 
purify,  extend,  and  adorn  the  temple  of  his  own 
soul,  out  of  which  should  afterward  flow,  in  their 
own  free  way,  those  choral  harmonies  that  soothe, 
guide,  and  exalt  the  human  race.  He  lived  before 
he  wrote.  The  soul  of  the  Elegy  is  the  soul  of  the 
man.  It  was  his  thought  —  which  he  has  some- 
where expressed  in  better  words  than  these  — 
that  human  beings  are  only  at  their  best  while 
such  feelings  endure  as  are  engendered  when  death 
has  just  taken  from  us  the  objects  of  our  love. 
That  was  the  point  of  view  from  which  he  habit- 
ually looked  upon  the  world  ;  and  no  man  who  has 
learned  the  lessons  of  experience  can  doubt  that 
he  was  right. 

Gray  was  twenty-six  years  old  when  he  wrote 
the  first  draft  of  the  Elegy.  He  began  this  poem, 
in  1742,  at  Stoke  Pogis,  and  he  finished  and  pub- 
lished it  in  1750.  No  visitor  to  this  churchyard 
can  miss  either  its  inspiration  or  its  imagery.     The 


Stoke  Pogis  and  Thomas  Gray.  45 

poet  has  been  dead  more  than  a  hundred  years  ; 
but  the  scene  of  his  rambles  and  reveries  has  suf- 
fered no  material  change.  One  of  his  yew-trees, 
indeed,  much  weakened  with  age,  was  some  time 
since  blown  down  in  a  storm,  and  its  fragments 
have  been  carried  away.  A  picturesque  house  con- 
tiguous to  the  churchyard,  which  in  Queen  Eliz- 
beth's  time  was  a  palace  and  was  visited  by  that 
sovereign,  and  which  Gray  knew  as  a  manor,  has 
now  become  a  dairy.  All  the  trees  of  the  region 
have,  of  course,  waxed  and  expanded,  —  not  forget- 
ting the  neighbouring  beeches  of  Birnam,  among 
which  he  loved  to  wander,  and  where  he  might 
often  have  been  found,  sitting  with  his  book,  at  some 
gnarled  wreath  of  '■  old  fantastic  roots."  Hut,  in  all 
its  general  characteristics,  its  rustic  homeliness  and 
peaceful  beauty,  this  "glimmering  landscape,"  im- 
mortalized in  his  verse,  is  the  same  on  which  his 
living  eyes  have  looked.  There  was  no  need  to 
seek  for  him  in  any  special  spot.  The  cotta,"-e  in 
which  he  once  lived  might,  no  doubt,  be  discov- 
ered; but  every  nook  and  vista,  every  green  lane 
and  upland  lawn  and  ivy-mantled  tower  of  this 
delicious  solitude  is  haunted  with  his  presence. 

The  night  is  coming  on  and  the  picture  will  soon 
be  dark ;  but  never  while  memory  lasts  can  it  fade 
out  of  the  heart.  What  a  blessing  would  be  ours, 
if  only  we  could  hold  forever  that  exaltation  of  the 
spirit,  that  sweet,  resigned  serenity,  that  pure  free- 
dom from  all  the  passions  of   nature  and  all  the 


46  English  Rmiiblcs. 

cares  of  life,  which  comes  upon  us  in  such  a  place 
as  this  !  Alas,  and  again  Alas  !  Even  with  the 
thought  this  golden  mood  begins  to  melt  away  ; 
even  with  the  thought  comes  our  dismissal  from  its 
influence.  Nor  will  it  avail  us  anything  now  to 
linger  at  the  shrine.  Fortunate  is  he,  though  in 
bereavement  and  regret,  who  parts  from  beauty 
while  yet  her  kiss  is  warm  upon  his  lips,  —  waiting 
not  for  the  last  farewell  word,  hearing  not  the  last 
notes  of  the  music,  seeing  not  the  last  gleams  of 
sunset  as  the  light  dies  from  the  sky.  It  was  a  sad 
parting,  but  the  memory  of  the  place  can  never 
now  be  despoiled  of  its  loveliness.  As  I  write  these 
words  I  stand  again  in  the  cool  and  dusky  silence 
of  the  poet's  church,  with  its  air  of  stately  age  and 
its  fragrance  of  cleanliness,  while  the  light  of  the 
western  sun,  broken  into  rays  of  gold  and  ruby, 
streams  through  the  great  painted  windows,  and 
softly  falls  upon  the  quaint  little  galleries  and 
decorous  pews;  and,  looking  forth  through  the 
low,  arched  door,  I  see  the  dark  and  melancholy 
boughs  of  the  dreaming  yew-lree,  and,  nearer,  a 
shadow  of  rippling  leaves  in  the  clear  sunshine  of 
the  churchway  path.  And  all  the  time  a  quiet 
voice  is  whispering,  in  the  chambers  of  thought: 

"  No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose), 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God." 


VI. 


AT   THE   GRAVE   OF   COLERIDGE. 


A  MONO  the  many  decp-thoughted,  melodious 
■^^  and  eloquent  poems  of  Wordsworth  there  is 
one  —  about  the  burial  of  Ossian  —  which  glances 
at  the  question  of  fitness  in  a  place  of  sepulture. 
Not  always,  for  the  illustrious  dead,  has  the  final 
couch  of  rest  been  rightly  chosen.  We  think  with 
resignation,  and  with  a  kind  of  pride,  of  Keats  and 
Shelley  in  the  little  Protestant  burial-ground  at 
Rome.  Every  heart  is  touched  at  tlie  spectacle  of 
Garrick  and  Johnson  sleeping  side  by  side  in  West- 
minster Abbey.  It  was  right  that  the  dust  of 
Dean  Stanley  should  mingle  with  the  dust  of  poets 
and  of  kings;  and  to  see  —  as  the  present  writer 
did,  only  a  little  while  ago  — fresh  flowers  on  the 


48  E?iglish  Rmnbles. 

stone  that  covers  him,  in  the  chapel  of  Henry  the 
Seventh,  was  to  feel  a  tender  gladness  and  solemn 
content.  Shakespeare's  grave,  in  the  chancel  of 
Stratford  Church,  awakens  the  same  ennobling 
awe  and  melancholy  pleasure  ;  and  it  is  with  kin- 
dred feelings  that  you  linger  at  the  tomb  of  Gray. 
But  who  can  be  content  that  poor  Letitia  Landon 
should  sleep  beneath  the  pavement  of  a  barrack, 
with  soldiers  trampling  over  her  dust  ?  One  might 
almost  think,  sometimes,  that  the  spirit  of  calamity, 
which  follows  certain  persons  throughout  the  whole 
of  life,  had  pursued  them  even  in  death,  to  haunt 
about  their  repose  and  to  mar  all  the  gentleness  of 
association  that  ought  to  hallow  it.  Chatterton,  a 
pauper  and  a  suicide,  was  huddled  into  a  work- 
house graveyard,  the  very  place  of  which — in  Shoe 
Lane,  covered  now  by  Farringdon  Market  —  has 
disappeared.  Otway,  miserable  in  his  love  for 
Elizabeth  Barry,  the  actress,  and  said  to  have 
starved  to  death,  in  the  Minories,  near  the  Tower 
of  London,  was  laid  in  a  vault  of  St.  Clement-le- 
Danes  in  the  middle  of  the  Strand,  where  never 
the  green  leaves  rustle,  but  where  the  roar  of  the 
mighty  city  pours  on  in  continual  tumult.  This 
church  holds  also  the  remains  of  William  Mount- 
fort,  the  actor,  slain  in  a  brawl  by  Lord  Mohun  ;  of 
Nat  Lee,  "  the  mad  poet " ;  of  George  Powell,  the 
tragedian,  of  brilliant  and  deplorable  memory  ;  and 
of  the  handsome  Hildebrand  Horden,i  cut  off  by  a 
1  Hildebrand  Horden  was  the  son  of  a  clergyman,  of  Twick- 


At  the  Grave  of  Coleridge.  49 

violent  death  in  the  very  spring-time  of  his  youth. 
Henry  Mossop,  one  of  the  stateliest  of  stately 
actors,  perishing,  by  slow  degrees,  of  penury  and 
grief,  —  which  he  bore  in  utter  silence,  —  found  a 
refuge,  at  last,  in  the  gloomy  barrenness  of  Chelsea 
Church.  Theodore  Hook,  the  cheeriest  spirit  of 
his  time,  the  man  who  filled  every  hour  of  life  with 
the  sunshine  of  his  wit,  and  was  wasted  and  de- 
graded by  his  own  brilliancy,  rests  (close  by  Bishop 
Sherlock)  in  Fulham  Churchyard,  —  one  of  the 
dreariest  spots  in  the  suburbs  of  London.  Per- 
haps it  does  not  much  signify,  wlien  once  the  play 
is  over,  in  what  oblivion  our  crumbling  relics  are 
hidden  away.  Yet  to  most  human  creatures  these 
are  sacred  things,  and  many  a  loving  heart,  for  all 

enham,  and  lived  in  the  reign  of  William  and  Mary.  Dramatic 
chronicles  say  that  he  was  possessed  of  great  talents  as  an  actor, 
and  of  remarkable  personal  beauty.  lie  was  stabbed,  in  a  quar- 
rel, at  the  Rose  Tavern ;  and  alter  he  had  been  laid  out  for  the 
grave,  such  was  the  lively  feminine  interest  in  his  handsome  per- 
son, many  ladies  came,  some  masked  and  others  openly,  to  view 
him  in  his  shroud.  This  is  mentioned  in  Colley  Gibber's  Apol- 
ogy. Charles  Coffey,  the  dramatist,  author  of  "  The  Devil 
upon  Two  Sticks,"  and  other  plays,  lies  in  the  vaults  of  St. 
Clement ;  as  likewise  does  Thomas  Rymer,  historiographer  for 
William  III.,  successor  to  Shadwell,  and  author  of  "  F^iedera," 
in  seventeen  volumes.  In  the  church  of  St.  Clement  you  may 
see  the  pew  in  which  Dr.  Johnson  habitually  sat,  when  he  at- 
tended divine  service  there.  It  \vas  his  favourite  church.  The 
pew  is  in  the  gallery ;  and  to  those  who  honour  the  passionate 
integrity  and  fervent,  devout  zeal  of  the  stalwart  old  champion 
of  letters,  it  is  indeed  a  sacred  shrine. 


5°  E?iglish  Rambles. 

time  to  come,  will  choose  a  consecrated  spot  for 
tlie  repose  of  tlie  dead,  and  will  echo  the  tender 
words  of  Longfellow,  —  so  truly  expressive  of  a  uni- 
versal and  reverent  sentiment : 

"  Take  them,  O  grave,  and  let  them  lie 
Folded  upon  thy  narrow  shelves, 
As  garments  by  the  soul  laid  by 
And  precious  only  to  ourselves." 

One  of  the  pleasantest  and  saddest  of  the  liter- 
ary pilgrimages  that  I  have  made  was  that  which 
brought  me  to  the  house  in  which  Coleridge  died, 
and  the  place  where  he  was  buried.  The  student 
needs  not  to  be  told  that  this  poet,  born  in  1772, 
the  year  after  Gray's  death,  bore  the  white  lilies  of 
pure  literature  till  1834,  when  he  too  entered  into 
his  rest.  The  last  nineteen  years  of  the  life  of 
Coleridge  were  spent  in  a  house  at  Highgate  ;  and 
here,  within  a  few  steps  of  each  other,  the  visitor 
may  behold  his  dwelling  and  his  tomb.  The  house 
is  one  in  a  block  of  dwellings,  situated  in  what  is 
called  The  Grove  —  a  broad  and  embowered  street, 
a  little  way  off  from  the  centre  of  the  village. 
There  are  gardens  attached  to  these  houses,  both 
in  the  front  and  the  rear,  and  the  smooth  and 
peaceful  roadside  walks  in  The  Grove  itself  are 
pleasantly  shaded  by  elms  of  noble  size  and  abun- 
dant foliage.  These  were  young  trees  when  Cole- 
ridge saw  them,  and  all  this  neighbourhood,  in  his 
day,   was   but  thinly  settled.     Looking  from  his 


Af  the  Grave  of  Coleridge.  5 1 

chamber  window  he  could  see  the  dusky  outhnes 
of  sombre  London,  crowned  with  the  dome  of  St. 
Paul's  on  the  southern  horizon,  while,  more  near, 
across  a  fertile  and  smiling  valley,  the  gray  spire 
of  Hampstead  Church  would  bound  his  prospect, 
rising  above  the  verdant  woodland  of  Caen.^  In 
front  were  beds  of  flowers,  and  all  around  he  might 
hear  the  songs  of  birds  that  filled  the  fragrant  air 
with  their  happy,  careless  music.  Not  far  away 
stood  the  old  church  of  Highgate,  long  since  de- 
stroyed, in  which  he  used  to  worship,  and  close  by 
was  the  Gate  House  Inn,  primitive,  quaint,  and  cosey, 
which  still  is  standing  to  comfort  the  weary  traveller 
with  its  wholesome  hospitality.  Highgate,  with  all 
its  rural  peace,  must  have  been  a  bustling  place  in 
the  old  times,  for  all  the  travel  went  through  it  that 
passed  either  into  or  out  of  London  by  the  great 
north  road,  —  that  road  in  which  Whittington  heard 
the  prophetic  summons  of  the  bells,  and  where 
may  still  be  seen,  suitably  and  rightly  marked,  the 
site  of  the  stone  on  which  he  sat  to  rest.  Here, 
indeed,  the  coaches  used  to  halt,  either  to  bait  or 
to  change  horses,  and  here  the  many  neglected 
little  taverns  still  remaining,  with  their  odd  names 
and  their  swinging  signs,  testify  to  the  discarded 

'  "Come  in  the  first  stage,  so  as  either  to  walk  or  to  be  driven 
in  Mr.  Oilman's  gig,  to  Caen  wood  and  its  delicious  groves  and 
alleys,  the  finest  in  England,  a  grand  Cathedral  aisle  of  giant 
lime-trees,  Pope's  favourite  composition  walk,  when  with  the  old 
Earl."  —  Coleridge  to  Crabb  Robinson.    Highgate,  June,  1817. 


52  English  Rambles. 

customs  of  a  by-gone  age.  Some  years  ago  a  new 
road  was  cut,  so  that  travellers  might  wind  around 
the  hill,  and  avoid  climbing  the  steep  ascent  to  the 
village  ;  and  since  then  the  grass  has  begun  to 
grow  in  the  streets.  But  such  bustle  as  once  en- 
livened the  solitude  of  Highgate  could  never  have 
been  otherwise  than  agreeable  diversion  to  its  in- 
habitants ;  while  for  Coleridge  himself,  as  we  can 
well  imagine,  the  London  coach  was  welcome 
indeed,  that  brought  to  his  door  such  well-loved 
friends  as  Charles  Lamb,  Joseph  Henry  Green, 
Crabb  Robinson,  Wordsworth,  or  Talfourd, 

To  this  retreat  the  author  of  "  The  Ancient 
Mariner"  withdrew  in  1815,  to  live  with  his  friend 
James  Oilman,  a  surgeon,  who  had  undertaken  to 
rescue  him  from  the  demon  of  opium,  but  who,  as 
De  Ouincey  intimates,  was  lured  by  the  poet  into 
the  service  of  the  very  fiend  whom  both  had  striven 
to  subdue.  It  was  his  last  refuge,  and  he  never 
left  it  till  he  was  released  from  life.  As  you 
ramble  in  this  quiet  neighbourhood  your  fancy  will 
not  fail  to  conjure  up  his  placid  figure,  —  the  silver 
hair,  the  pale  face,  the  great,  luminous,  changeful 
blue  eyes,  the  somewhat  portly  form  clotlied  in 
black  raiment,  the  slow,  feeble  walk,  the  sweet, 
benignant  manner,  the  voice  that  was  perfect 
melody,  and  the  inexhaustible  talk  that  was  the 
flow  of  a  golden  sea  of  eloquence  and  wisdom. 
Coleridge  was  often  seen  walking  here,  with  a  book 
in  his  hand ;  and  all  the  children  of  the  village  knew 


Al  the  Grave  of  Coleridge.  53 

him  and  loved  him.  His  presence  is  impressed 
forever  upon  this  place,  to  haunt  and  to  hallow  it. 
He  was  a  very  c;reat  man.  The  wings  of  his  imag- 
ination wave  easily  in  the  opal  air  of  the  highest 
heaven.  The  power  and  majesty  of  his  thought 
are  such  as  establish  forever  in  the  human  mind 
the  conviction  of  personal  immortality.  No  man 
who  reads  Coleridge  can  doubt  the  destiny  of  the 
soul.  Yet  how  forlorn  the  ending  that  this  stately 
spirit  was  enforced  to  make  !  For  more  than  thirty 
years  he  was  the  slave  of  opium.  It  broke  up  his 
home  ;  it  alienated  his  wife  ;  it  ruined  his  health  ; 
it  made  him  utterly  wretched.  "  I  have  been, 
through  a  large  portion  of  my  later  life,"  he  wrote, 
in  1834,  "  a  sufferer,  sorely  afflicted  with  bodily 
pains,  languor,  and  manifold  infirmities."  But 
back  of  all  this,  —  more  dreadful  still  and  harder 
to  bear,  —  was  he  not  the  slave  of  some  ingrained 
perversity  of  the  mind  itself,  some  helpless  and 
hopeless  irresolution  of  character,  some  enervating 
spell  of  that  sublime  yet  pitiable  dejection  of  Ham- 
let, which  kept  him  forever  at  war  with  himself, 
and,  last  of  all,  cast  him  out  upon  the  homeless 
ocean  of  despair,  to  drift  away  into  ruin  and  death  ! 
There  are  shapes  more  awful  than  his,  in  the  rec- 
ords of  literary  history, — the  ravaged,  agonizing 
form  of  Swift,  for  instance,  and  the  wonderful,  des- 
olate face  of  Byron  ;  but  there  is  no  figure  more 
forlorn  and  pathetic. 

This  way  the  memory  of  Coleridge  came  upon 


54  English  Rambles. 

me,  standing  at  his  grave.  He  should  have  been 
laid  in  some  wild,  free  place,  where  the  grass  could 
grow  above  him  and  the  trees  could  wave  their 
branches  over  his  head.  They  placed  him  in  a 
ponderous  tomb,  of  gray  stone,  in  Highgate  Church- 
yard, and,  in  later  times,  they  have  reared  a  new 
building  above  it,  —  the  grammar  school  of  the  vil- 
lage, —  so  that  now  the  tomb,  fenced  round  with 
iron,  is  in  a  cold,  barren,  gloomy  crypt,  accessible, 
indeed,  from  the  churchyard,  through  several 
arches,  but  grim  and  doleful  in  all  its  surroundings  ; 
as  if  the  evil  and  cruel  fate  that  marred  his  life  were 
still  triumphant  over  his  ashes. 


VII. 


ON    BARNET   BATTLE-FIELD. 


IN  England,  as  elsewhere,  every  historic  spot  is 
occupied ;  and  of  course  it  sometimes  happens, 
at  such  a  spot,  that  its  association  is  marred  and  its 
sentiment  almost  destroyed  by  the  presence  of  the 
persons  and  the  interests  of  to-day.  The  visitor  to 
such  places  must  carry  with  him  not  only  knowl- 
edge and  sensibility,  but  imagination  and  patience. 
He  will  not  find  the  way  strewn  with  roses  nor  the 
atmosphere  of  poetry  ready-made  for  his  enjoy- 
ment. That  atmosphere,  indeed,  for  the  most  part 
—  especially  in  the  cities — he  must  himself  supply. 
Relics  do  not  robe  themselves  for  exhibition.  The 
Past  is  utterly  indifferent  to  its  worshippers.  All 
manner  of  little  obstacles,  too,  will  arise  before  the 


56  English  Rambles. 

pilgrim,  to  thwart  him  in  his  search.  The  mental 
strain  and  bewilderment,  the  inevitable  physical 
weariness,  the  soporific  influence  of  the  climate, 
the  tumult  of  the  streets,  the  frequent  and  dis- 
heartening spectacle  of  poverty,  squalour,  and  vice, 
the  capricious  and  untimely  rain,  the  inconvenience 
of  long  distances,  the  ill-timed  arrival  and  con- 
sequent disappointment,  the  occasional  nervous 
sense  of  loneliness  and  insecurity,  the  inappropriate 
boor,  the  ignorant,  garrulous  porter,  the  extor- 
tionate cabman,  and  the  jeering  by-stander  —  all 
these  must  be  regarded  with  resolute  indifference 
by  him  who  would  ramble,  pleasantly  and  profit- 
ably, in  the  footprints  of  English  history.  Every- 
thing depends,  in  other  words,  upon  the  eyes  with 
which  you  observe,  and  the  spirit  which  you  im- 
part. Never  was  a  keener  truth  uttered  than  in 
the  couplet  of  Wordsworth  : 

"  Minds  that  have  nothing  to  confer 
Find  little  to  perceive." 

To  the  philosophic  stranger,  however,  even  this 
prosaic  occupancy  of  historic  places  is  not  without 
its  pleasurable,  because  humorous,  significance. 
Such  an  observer  in  England  will  sometimes  be 
amused  as  well  as  impressed  by  a  sudden  sense  of 
the  singular  incidental  position  into  which,  —  partly 
through  the  lapse  of  years  and  partly  through  a 
pecuHarity  of  national  character,  —  the  scenes  of 
famous  events,  not  to  say  the  events  themselves, 
have  gradually  drifted.     I  thought  of  this  one  night, 


On  Barnd  B attle- Field .  57 

when,  in  Whitehall  Gardens,  I  was  looking  at  the 
statue  of  James  the  Second,  —  which  there  marks 
the  place  of  the  execution  of  his  father,  Charles  the 
First,  —  and  a  courteous  policeman  came  up  and 
silendy  turned  the  light  of  his  bull's-eye  upon  the 
inscription.  A  scene  of  more  incongruous  elements, 
or  one  suggestive  of  a  more  serio-comic  contrast, 
could  not  be  imagined.  I  thought  of  it  again  when 
standing  on  the  village  green  near  Barnet,  and 
viewing,  amid  surroundings  both  pastoral  and  ludi- 
crous, the  column  which  there  commemorates  the 
defeat  and  death  of  the  great  Earl  of  Warwick, 
and,  consequently,  the  final  triumph  of  the  Crown 
over  the  last  of  the  Barons  of  England. 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  a  cool  summer  day, 
and  of  a  long  drive  through  the  beautiful  hedge- 
rows of  sweet  and  verdurous  Middlesex,  that  I 
came  to  the  villages  of  Barnet  and  Hadley,  and 
went  over  the  field  of  King  Edward's  victory,  —  that 
fatal,  glorious  field,  on  which  Gloster  showed  such 
resolute  valour,  and  where  Neville,  supreme  and 
magnificent  in  disaster,  fought  on  foot,  to  make 
sure  that  himself  might  go  down  in  the  stormy 
death  of  all  his  hopes.  More  than  four  hundred 
years  have  drifted  by  since  that  misty  April  morn- 
ing when  the  star  of  Warwick  was  quenched  in 
blood,  and  ten  thousand  men  were  slaughtered  to 
end  the  strife  between  the  Barons  and  the  Crown ; 
yet  the  results  of  that  conflict  are  living  facts  in  the 
government  of  England  now,  and  in  the  fortunes  of 


58  English  Rambles. 

her  inhabitants.  If  you  were  unaware  of  the  solid 
simpHcity  and  proud  reticence  of  the  English  char- 
acter, —  leading  it  to  merge  all  its  shining  deeds  in 
one  continuous  fabric  of  achievement,  like  jewels 
set  in  a  cloth  of  gold,  —  you  might  expect  to  find 
this  spot  adorned  with  a  structure  of  more  than 
common  splendour.  What  you  actually  do  find 
there  is  a  plain  monolith,  standing  in  the  middle 
of  a  common,  at  the  junction  of  several  roads,  — 
the  chief  of  which  are  those  leading  to  Hatfield 
and  St.  Albans,  in  Hertfordshire,  —  and  on  one  side 
of  this  column  you  may  read,  in  letters  of  faded 
black,  the  comprehensive  statement  that  "  Here 
was  fought  the  famous  battle  between  Edward  the 
Fourth  and  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  April  14th,  anno 
1471,  in  which  the  Earl  was  defeated  and  slain. ^ 

In  my  reverie,  standing  at  the  foot  of  this  humble, 
weather-stained  monument,  I  saw  the  long  range 
of  Barnet  Hills,  mantled  with  grass  and  flowers  and 
with  the  golden  haze  of  a  morning  in  spring, 
swarming  with  gorgeous  horsemen  and  glittering 
with  spears  and  banners;  and  I  heard  the  vengeful 
clash  of  arms,  the  horrible  neighing  of  maddened 
steeds,  the  furious  shouts  of  onset,  and  all  the 
nameless  cries  and  groans  of  battle,  commingled  in 
a  thrilling  yet  hideous  din.  Here  rode  King  Ed- 
ward, intrepid,  handsome,  and  stalwart,  with  his 
proud,  cruel  smile  and  his  long  yellow  hair.     There 

1  The  words  "  stick  no  bills ' '  have  been  added,  just  below  this 
inscription,  with  ludicrous  effect. 


On  Barnct  Battlc-FicU.  59 

Warwick  swung  his  great  two-handed  sword,  and 
mowed  his  foes  like  grain.  And  there  the  fiery 
form  of  Richard,  splendid  in  burnislied  steel,  darted 
like  the  scorpion,  dealing  death  at  every  blow  ;  till 
at  last,  in  fatal  mischance,  the  sad  star  of  Oxford, 
assailed  by  its  own  friends,  was  swept  out  of  the 
field,  and  the  fight  drove,  raging,  into  the  valleys 
of  Hadley.  How  strangely,  though,  did  this  fan- 
cied picture  contrast  with  the  actual  scene  before 
me.  At  a  little  distance,  all  around  the  village 
green,  the  peaceful,  embowered  cottages  kept  their 
sentinel  watch.  Over  the  careless,  straggling  grass 
went  the  shadow  of  the  passing  clouds.  Not  a 
sound  was  heard,  save  the  rustle  of  leaves  and  the 
low  laughter  of  some  little  children,  playing  near 
the  monument.  Close  by,  and  at  rest,  was  a  flock 
of  geese,  couched  upon  the  cool  earth,  and,  as  their 
custom  is,  supremely  contented  with  themselves 
and  all  the  world.  And  at  the  very  foot  of  the 
column,  stretched  out  at  his  full  length,  in  tattered 
garments  that  scarcely  covered  his  nakedness,  re- 
posed the  British  labourer,  fast  asleep  upon  the  sod. 
No  more  Wars  of  the  Roses  now  ;  but  calm  retire- 
ment, smihng  plenty,  cool  western  winds,  and  sleep 
and  peace  — 

"  With  a  red  rose  and  a  white  rose 
Leaning,  nodding  at  the  wall." 


<4^ 


VIII. 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  CANTERBURY. 


ONE  of  the  most  impressive  spots  on  earth,  and 
one  that  especially  teaches — with  silent, 
pathetic  eloquence  and  solemn  admonition  —  the 
great  lesson  of  contrast,  the  incessant  flow  of 
the  ages  and  the  inevitable  decay  and  oblivion  of 
the  past,  is  the  ancient  city  of  Canterbury.  Years 
and  not  merely  days  of  residence  here  are  essential 
to  the  adequate  and  right  comprehension  of  this 
wonderful  place.  Yet  even  an  hour  passed  among 
its  shrines  will  teach  you,  as  no  printed  word  has 
ever  taught,  the  measureless  power  and  the  sublime 
beauty  of  a  perfect  religious  faith;  while,  as  you 
stand  and  meditate  in  the  shadow  of  the  gray 
Cathedral  walls,  the  pageant  of  a  thousand  years 


A    Glimpse  of  Canterbury.  6i 

of  history  will  pass  before  you  like  a  dream.  The 
city  itself,  with  its  bright,  swift  river  (the  Stour), 
its  opulence  of  trees  and  flowers,  its  narrow,  wind- 
ing streets,  its  numerous  antique  buildings,  its 
many  towers,  its  fragments  of  ancient  wall  and 
gate,  its  formal  decorations,  its  air  of  perfect  clean- 
liness and  thoughtful  gravity,  its  beautiful,  umbrage- 
ous suburbs,  —  where  the  scarlet  of  the  poppies 
and  the  russet  red  of  the  clover  make  one  vast  roll- 
ing sea  of  colour  and  of  fragrant  delight,  —  and,  to 
crown  all,  its  stately  character  of  wealth  without 
ostentation  and  industry  without  tumult,  must  prove 
to  you  a  deep  and  satisfying  comfort.  But,  through 
all  this,  pervading  and  surmounting  it  all,  the  spirit 
of  the  place  pours  in  upon  your  heart,  and  floods 
your  whole  being  with  the  incense  and  organ  music 
of  passionate,  jubilant  devotion. 

It  was  not  superstition  that  reared  those  gor- 
geous fanes  of  worship  which  still  adorn,  even 
while  they  no  longer  consecrate,  the  ecclesiastic 
cities  of  the  old  world.  In  the  days  of  Augustine, 
Dunstan,  and  Ethelnoth,  humanity  had  begun  to 
feel  its  profound  and  vital  need  of  a  sure  and  settled 
reliance  on  religious  faith.  The  drifting  spirit, 
worn  with  sorrow,  doubt,  and  self-conflict,  longed 
to  be  at  peace  —  longed  for  a  refuge  equally  from 
the  evils  and  tortures  of  its  own  condition  and  the 
storms  and  perils  of  the  world.  In  that  longing  it 
recognized  its  immortality  and  heard  the  voice  of 
its  Divine  Parent ;  and  out  of  the  ecstatic  joy  and 


62  English  Rambles. 

utter  abandonment  of  its  new-born,  passionate, 
responsive  faith,  it  built  and  consecrated  those 
stupendous  temples,  —  rearing  them  with  all  its 
love,  no  less  than  all  its  riches  and  all  its  power. 
There  was  no  wealth  that  it  would  not  give,  no  toil 
that  it  would  not  perform,  and  no  sacrifice  that  it 
would  not  make,  in  the  accomplishment  of  its 
sacred  task.  It  was  grandly,  nobly,  terribly  in 
earnest,  and  it  achieved  a  work  that  is  not  only 
sublime  in  its  poetic  majesty  but  measureless  in 
the  scope  and  extent  of  its  moral  and  spiritual  in- 
fluence. It  has  left  to  succeeding  ages  not  only  a 
legacy  of  permanent  beauty,  not  only  a  sublime 
symbol  of  religious  faith,  but  an  everlasting  monu- 
ment to  the  loveliness  and  greatness  that  are  in- 
herent in  human  nature.  No  creature  with  a 
human  heart  in  his  bosom  can  stand  in  such  a 
building  as  Canterbury  Cathedral  without  feeling 
a  greater  love  and  reverence  than  he  ever  felt  be- 
fore, alike  for  God  and  man. 

On  a  day,  this  year,  (July  27th,  1882),  when  a 
class  of  the  boys  of  the  King's  School  of  Canter- 
bury was  graduated,  the  present  writer  chanced  to 
be  a  listener  to  the  impressive  and  touching  sermon 
that  was  preached  before  them,  in  the  chancel  of 
the  Cathedral ;  wherein  they  were  tenderly  admon- 
ished to  keep  unbroken  their  associations  with 
their  school-days,  and  to  remember  the  lessons  of 
the  place  itself.  This  counsel  must  have  sunk 
deep  into  every  mind.     It  is  difficult  to  understand 


A   Glimpse  of  Canterbury.  d^ 

how  any  person  reared  amid  such  scenes  and  relics 
could  ever  cast  away  their  hallowing  influence. 
Even  to  the  casual  visitor  the  bare  thought  of  the 
historic  treasures  that  are  garnered  in  this  temple 
is,  by  itself,  sufficient  to  implant  in  the  bosom  a 
mem.orable  and  lasting  awe.  For  more  than  twelve 
hundred  years  the  succession  of  the  Archbishops 
of  Canterbury  has  remained  substantially  unbroken. 
There  have  been  ninety-three  '"primates  of  all 
England,"  of  whom  fifty-three  were  buried  in  the 
Cathedral,  and  here  the  tombs  of  fifteen  of  them 
are  still  visible.  Here  was  buried  the  sagacious, 
crafty,  inflexible,  indomitable  Henry  the  Fourth,  — 
that  Hereford  whom  Shakespeare  has  described 
and  interpreted  with  matchless,  immortal  elo- 
quence,—  and  here,  cut  off  in  the  morning  of  his 
greatness,  and  lamented  to  this  day  in  the  hearts 
of  the  English  people,  was  laid  the  body  of  Edward 
the  Black  Prince,  who  to  a  dauntless  valour  and 
terrible  prowess  in  war  added  a  high-souled,  hu- 
mane, and  tender  magnanimity  in  conquest,  and 
whom  personal  virtues  and  shining  public  deeds 
united  to  make  the  ideal  hero  of  chivalry.  In  no 
other  way  than  by  personal  observance  of  such 
memorials  can  historic  reading  be  invested  with  a 
perfect  and  permanent  reality.  Over  the  tomb  of 
the  Black  Prince,  with  its  fine  recumbent  effigy  of 
gilded  brass,  hang  the  gauntlets  that  he  wore  ; 
and  they  tell  you  that  his  sword  formerly  hung 
there,  but  that  Oliver  Cromwell,  —  who  revealed 


64  English  Rambles. 

his  iconoclastic  and  unlovely  character  in  making  a 
stable  of  this  Cathedral,  —  carried  it  away.  Close 
at  hand  is  the  tomb  of  the  wise,  just,  and  gentle 
Cardinal  Pole,  simply  inscribed,  "Blessed  are  the 
dead  which  die  in  the  Lord  ;  "  and  you  may  touch 
a  little,  low  mausoleum  of  gray  stone,  in  which  are 
the  ashes  of  John  Morton,  that  Bishop  of  Ely  from 
whose  garden  in  Holborn  the  strawberries  were 
brought  for  the  Duke  of  Gloster,  on  the  day  when 
he  slaughtered  the  accomplished  Hastings,  and 
who  "fled  to  Richmond,"  in  good  time,  from  the 
standard  of  the  grisly  and  dangerous  Protector. 
Standing  there,  I  could  almost  hear  the  resolute, 
scornful  voice  of  Richard,  breathing  out,  in  clear, 
implacable  accents : 

"  Morton  with  Richmond  touches  me  more  near 
Than  Buckingham  and  his  rasli-levied  numbers." 

The  astute  Morton,  when  Bosworth  was  over, 
and  Richmond  had  assumed  the  crown,  and  Bour- 
chier  had  died,  was  made  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury ;  and  as  such,  at  a  great  age,  he  passed  away. 
A  few  hundred  yards  from  his  place  of  rest,  in  a 
vault  beneath  the  Church  of  St.  Dunstan,  is  the 
head  of  Sir  Thomas  More  (the  body  being  in  St. 
Peter's,  at  the  Tower  of  London),  who,  in  his 
youth,  had  been  a  member  of  Morton's  ecclesiasti- 
cal household,  and  whose  greatness  that  prelate 
had  foreseen  and  prophesied.  Did  no  shadow  of 
the    scaffold    ever    fall    across    the     statesman's 


A   Glimpse  of  Canterbury.  65 

thoughts,  as  he  looked  upon  that  handsome,  manly 
boy,  and  thoui;ht  o£  the  tro  iblous  times  that  were 
raging  about  them  ?  Morton,  aged  ninety,  died  in 
1500;  More,  aged  fifty-five,  in  1535.  Strange  fate, 
indeed,  was  that,  and  as  inscrutable  as  mournful, 
which  gave  to  those  who  in  life  had  been  like  father 
and  son  such  a  ghastly  association  in  death  ! '  They 
show  you,  of  course,  the  spot  where  Becket  was 
murdered,  and  the  stone  steps,  worn  hollow  by  the 
thousands  upon  thousands  of  devout  pilgrims  who, 
in  the  days  before  the  Reformation,  crept  up  to 
weep  and  pray  at  the  costly,  resplendent  shrine  of 
St.  Thomas.  The  bones  of  Becket,  as  all  the  world 
knows,  were,  by  command  of  Henry  the  Eighth, 
burnt,  and  scattered  to  the  winds,  while  his  shrine 
was  pillaged  and  destroyed.  Neither  tomb  nor 
scutcheon  commemorates  him  here, — but  the 
Cathedral  itself  is  his  monument.  There  it  stands, 
with  its  grand  columns  and  glorious  arches,  its 
towers  of  enormous  size  and  its  long  vistas  of  dis- 
tance so  mysterious  and  awful,   its  gloomy  crypt 

1  St.  Dunstan's  Church  was  connected  with  the  Convent  of 
St.  Gregory.  The  Roper  family,  in  the  time  of  Henrj'  the 
Fourth,  founded  a  chapel  in  it,  in  which  arc  two  marble  tombs, 
commemorative  of  them,  and  underneath  which  is  their  burial 
vault.  Margaret  Roper,  Sir  Thomas  More's  daughter,  obtained 
her  father's  head,  after  his  execution,  and  buried  it  here.  The 
vault  was  opened  in  1S35,  —  when  a  new  pavement  was  laid  in 
the  chancel  of  this  church,  —  and  persons  descending  into  it 
saw  the  head,  in  a  leaden  box  shaped  like  a  bee-hive,  open  in 
front,  set  in  a  niche  in  tlie  wall,  and  faced  with  an  iron  grating. 
5 


66  English  Rambles. 

where  once  the  silver  lamps  sparkled  and  the 
smoking  censers  were  swung,  its  tombs  of  mighty- 
warriors  and  statesmen,  its  frayed  and  crumbhng 
banners,  and  the  eternal,  majestic  silence  with 
which  it  broods  over  the  love,  ambition,  glory,  de- 
feat, and  anguish  of  a  thousand  years,  dissolved 
now  and  ended  in  a  little  dust !  As  the  organ  music 
died  away  I  looked  upward  and  saw  where  a  bird 
was  wildly  flying  to  and  fro  through  the  vast  spaces 
beneath  its  lofty  roof,  in  the  vain  effort  to  find  some 
outlet  of  escape.  Fit  emblem,  truly,  of  the  human 
mind  which  strives  to  comprehend  and  to  utter  the 
meaning  of  this  marvellous  fabric  ! 


IX. 


THE   SHRINES    OF   WARWICKSHIRE. 


NIGHT,  in  Stratford  -  on  -  Avon — a  summer 
night,  with  large,  solemn  stars,  a  cool  and 
fragrant  breeze  and  the  stillness  of  perfect  rest. 
From  this  high  and  grassy  bank  I  look  forth  across 
the  darkened  meadows  and  the  smooth  and  shining 
river,  and  see  the  little  town  Avhere  it  lies  asleep. 
Hardly  a  light  is  anywhere  visible.  A  few  great 
elms,  near  by,  are  nodding  and  rustling  in  the  wind, 
and  once  or  twice  a  drowsy  bird-note  floats  up  from 
the  neighbouring  thicket  that  skirts  the  vacant, 
lonely  road.  There,  at  some  distance,  are  the  dim 
arches  of  Clopton's  Bridge.  In  front  —  a  graceful, 
shapely  mass,  indistinct  in  the  starliglit  —  rises  the 
fair  Memorial,  Stratford's  honour  and  pride.     Fur- 


68  E7iglish  Rambles. 

ther  off,  glimmering  through  the  tree-tops,  is  the 
dusky  spire  of  Trinity,  keeping  its  sacred  vigil  over 
the  dust  of  Shakespeare.  Nothing  here  is  changed. 
The  same  tranquil  beauty,  as  of  old,  hallows  this 
place  ;  the  same  sense  of  awe  and  mystery  broods 
over  its  silent  shrines  of  everlasting  renown.  Long 
and  weary  the  years  have  been  since  last  I  saw  it ; 
but  to-night  they  are  remembered  only  as  a  fleet- 
ing and  troubled  dream.  Here,  once  more,  is  the 
highest  and  noblest  companionship  this  world  can 
give.  Here,  once  more,  is  the  almost  visible  pres- 
ence of  the  one  magician  who  can  lift  the  soul  out 
of  the  infinite  weariness  of  common  things,  and 
give  it  strength  and  peace.  The  old  time  has  come 
back,  and  the  bloom  of  the  heart  that  I  thought 
had  all  faded  and  gone.  I  stroll  again  to  the 
river's  brink,  and  take  my  place  in  the  boat,  and, 
trailing  my  hand  in  the  dark  waters  of  Avon, 
forget  every  trouble  that  ever  I  have  known. 

It  is  often  said,  with  reference  to  memorable 
places,  that  the  best  view  always  is  the  first  view. 
No  doubt  the  accustomed  eye  sees  blemishes.  No 
doubt  the  supreme  moments  of  human  life  are  few, 
and  come  but  once  ;  and  neither  of  them  is  ever 
repeated.  Yet  frequently  it  will  be  found  that  the 
change  is  in  ourselves  and  not  in  the  objects  we 
behold.  Scott  has  glanced  at  this  truth,  in  a  few 
mournful  lines,  written  toward  the  close  of  his 
heroic  and  beautiful  life.  Here  at  Stratford,  how- 
ever, I  am  not  conscious  that  the  wonderful  charm 


The  Shrines  of  Warwick.^hire.  69 

of  the  place  is  in  any  degree  impaired.  The  town 
still  preserves  its  old-fashioned  air,  its  quaintness, 
its  perfect  cleanliness  and  order.  At  the  Siiake- 
speare  cottage,  in  the  stillness  of  the  room  where  he 
was  born,  the  spirits  of  mystery  and  reverence  still 
keep  their  imperial  state.  At  the  ancient  Grammar 
School,  with  its  pent-house  roof  and  its  dark,  sag- 
ging rafters,  you  still  may  see,  in  fancy,  the  un- 
willing schoolboy  gazing  upward  absently  at  the 
great,  rugged  timbers,  or  looking  wistfully  at  the 
sunshine,  where  it  streams  through  the  little  lattice 
windows  of  his  prison.  New  Place,  with  its  lovely 
lawn,  its  spacious  gardens,  the  ancestral  mulberry 
and  the  ivj'-covered  well,  will  bring  the  poet  before 
you,  as  he  lived  and  moved  in  the  meridian  of  his 
greatness.  "  Cymbeline,"  "The  Tempest"  and 
"A  Winter's  Tale,"  the  last  of  his  works,  undoubt- 
edly were  written  here;  and  this  alone  should 
make  it  a  hallowed  spot.  Here  he  blessed  his 
young  daughter  on  her  wedding  day ;  here  his 
eyes  closed  in  the  last  long  sleep  ;  and  from  this 
place  he  was  carried  to  his  grave  in  the  chancel  of 
Stratford  Church.  I  pass  once  again  through  the 
fragrant  avenue  of  limes,  the  silent  churchyard 
with  its  crumbling  monuments,  the  dim  porcli,  the 
twilight  of  the  venerable  temple,  and  kneel  at  last 
above  the  ashes  of  Shakespeare.  What  majesty  in 
this  triumphant  rest !  All  the  great  labor  accom- 
plished. The  universal  human  heart  interpreted 
with  a  living  voice.     The  memory  and  the  imagina- 


70  English  Rambles. 

tion  of  mankind  stored  forever  with  words  of  sub- 
lime eloquence  and  images  of  immortal  beauty. 
The  noble  lesson  of  self-conquest —  the  lesson  of 
the  entire  adequacy  of  the  resolute,  virtuous,  pa- 
tient liuman  w'lW  —  set  forth  so  grandly  that  all  the 
world  must  see  its  meaning  and  marvel  at  its 
splendour.  And,  last  of  all,  death  itself  shorn  of  its 
terrours,  and  made  a  trivial  thing. 

There  is  a  new  custodian  at  New  Place,  and,  upon 
the  receipt  of  a  sixpence,  he  will  show  you  the  little 
museum  that  is  kept  there  —  including  the  shovel- 
board  from  the  old  Falcon  tavern  across  the  way, 
on  which  the  poet  himself  might  have  played  —  and 
he  will  lead  you  through  the  gardens,  and  descant 
on  the  mulberry  and  on  the  ancient  and  still  un- 
forgiven  vandalism  of   the  Rev.  Francis  Gastrell, 
by  whom  the  Shakespeare  mansion  was  destroyed 
(^757),  and  will  pause  at  the  well,  and  at  the  frag- 
ments of  the  foundation,  covered  now  with  stout 
screens  of  wire  gauze.     There  is  a  fresh  and  fra- 
grant beauty  all  about  these  grounds,  an  atmosphere 
of  sunshine,  life,  comfort  and  elegance  of  state,  that 
no  observer  can  miss.     This  same  keeper  also  has 
the  keys  of  the  Guild  Chapel,  opposite,  on  which 
Shakespeare    looked   from   his   windows    and   his 
garden,  and  in  which   he  was  the  holder  of   two 
sittings.     You   will   enter   it   by   the   same   porch 
through  which  he  walked,  and  see  the  arch  and 
columns  and  tall,  transomed  windows  on  which  his 
gaze  has  often  rested.     The  interior  is  cold  and 


The  Shrines  of  Warwiekshire.  71 

barren  now,  for  the  Scriptural  wall-paintings,  discov- 
ered here  in  1S04,  under  thick  coatings  of  whitewash, 
have  been  removed  or  have  faded,  and  the  wooden 
pews,  which  apparently  are  modern,  have  not  yet 
been  embrowned  by  age.  Yet  this  church,  known 
beyond  question  as  one  of  Shakespeare's  personal 
haunts,  will  hold  you  with  the  strongest  tie  of 
reverence  and  sympathy.  The  Falcon  tavern,  near 
by,  though  furnished  now  with  a  new  front,  is  the 
same  that  he  frequented  three  hundred  years  ago. 
At  his  birthplace  everything  remains  unchanged. 
The  gentle  old  ladies  who  have  so  long  guarded 
and  shown  it  still  have  it  in  their  affectionate  care. 
The  ceiling  of  the  room  in  which  tlie  poet  was  born 

—  that  room  which  contains  "the  Actors'  Pillar" 
and  the  thousands  of  signatures  on  walls  and  win- 
dows —  is  slowly  crumbling  to  pieces.  Every  morn- 
ing many  little  particles  of  the  plaster  are  found 
upon  the  floor.  The  area  of  tiny,  delicate  laths,  to 
sustain  this  ceiling  has  more  than  doubled  since  I 
last  saw  it,  five  years  ago.  It  was  on  the  ceiling 
that  Lord  Byron  wrote  his  name,  but  this  has  flaked 
off  and  disappeared.  In  the  museum  hall,  once  the 
Swan  Inn,  they  are  forming  a  library  ;  and  here, 
among  many  objects  of  dubious  value,  you  may  see 
at  least  one  Shakespearean  relic  of  extraordinary 
interest.     This  is  the  i\IS.  letter  of  Richard  Ouiney 

—  whose  son  became  in  1616  the  husband  of  Shake- 
speare's youngest  daughter,  Judith  —  asking  the 
poet  for  the  loan  of  thirty  pounds.     It  is  enclosed 


72 


Endish  Rambles. 


between  plates  of  glass  in  a  frame,  and  usually- 
kept  covered  with  a  cloth,  so  that  the  sunlight  may 
not  fade  the  ink;  and  the  window  opposite  to  which 
it  is  placed,  at  right  angles  to  the  casement,  is  pro- 
tected by  a  gauze  of  wire  from  danger  of  the  ac- 
cidental missile.  The  date  of  this  letter  is  October 
25,  1598,  and  thirty  English  pounds  then  was  a  sum 
equivalent  to  about  six  hundred  dollars  of  American 
money  now.  This  is  the  only  letter  known  to  be  in 
existence  that  Shakespeare  received.  The  elder 
of  the  ladies  who  keep  this  house  will  recite  to  you 
its  text,  from  memory  —  giving  a  delicious  old-fash- 
ioned flavour  to  its  quaint  phraseology  and  fervent 
spirit,  as  rich  and  strange  as  the  odour  of  the  wild 
thyme  and  rosemary  that  grow  in  her  garden  beds. 
This  antique  touch  adds  a  wonderful  charm  to  the 
relics  of  the  past.  I  found  it  once  more  when  sit- 
ting in  the  chimney-corner  of  Anne  Hathaway's 
kitchen  ;  and  again  in  the  lovely  little  church  at 
Charlcote,  where  a  simple,  kindly  woman,  not 
ashamed  to  reverence  the  place  and  the  dead, 
stood  with  me  at  the  tomb  of  the  Lucys,  and  re- 
peated from  memory  the  tender,  sincere,  and  elo- 
quent epitaph  with  which  Sir  Thomas  Lucy 
thereon  commemorates  his  wife.  The  lettering  is 
small  and  indistinct  on  the  tomb,  but,  having  often 
read  it,  I  well  knew  how  correctly  it  was  then 
spoken.  Nor  shall  I  ever  read  it  again  without 
thinking  of  that  low  and  pleasant  voice,  the  hush 
of    the   beautiful  church,   the   afternoon   sunlight 


The  Shrines  of  Warwickshire.  73 

streaming  througli  the  oriel  window,  and  —  visible 
through  the  doorway  arch  —  the  roses  waving 
among  the  churchyard  graves. 

In  the  days  of  Shakespeare's  courtship,  wlicn  he 
strolled  across  the  fields  to  Anne  Hathaway's  cot- 
tage at  Shottery,  his  path,  we  may  be  sure,  ran 
through  wild  pasture  land  and  tangled  thicket.  A 
fourth  part  of  England  at  that  time  was  a  wilder- 
ness, and  the  entire  population  of  that  country  did 
not  exceed  five  millions  of  persons.  The  Stratford- 
on-Avon  of  to-day  is  still  possessed  of  many  of  its 
ancient  features ;  but  the  region  round  about  it 
then  must  have  been  rude  and  wild,  in  comparison 
with  what  it  is  at  present.  If  you  take  the  foot- 
path to  Shottery  now  you  will  pass  between  low 
fences  and  along  the  margin  of  gardens,  —  now  in 
the  sunshine,  and  now  in  the  shadow  of  larch  and 
elm,  while  the  sweet  air  blows  upon  your  face  and 
the  expeditious  rook  makes  rapid  wing  to  the 
woodland,  cawing  as  he  flies.  In  the  old  cottage, 
with  its  roof  of  thatch,  its  crooked  rafters,  its 
odorous  hedges  and  climbing  vines,  its  leafy  well 
and  its  tangled  garden,  everything  remains  the 
same.  Mrs.  Mary  Taylor  Baker,  the  last  living 
descendant  of  the  Hathaways,  born  in  this  house, 
always  a  resident  here,  and  now  an  elderly  woman, 
still  has  it  in  her  keeping,  and  still  displays  to  you 
the  ancient  carved  bedstead  in  the  garret,  the 
wooden  settle  by  the  kitchen  fireside,  the  hearth 
at   which   Shakespeare   sat,  the   great  blackened 


74  English  Rambles. 

chimney  with  its  adroit  iron  "fish-back"  for  the 
better  regulation  of  the  tea-kettle,  and  the  brown 
and  tattered  Bible  with  the  Hathaway  family  record. 
Sitting  in  an  old  arm-chair,  in  the  corner  of  Anne 
Hathaway's  bedroom,  I  could  hear  in  the  perfumed 
summer  stillness,  the  low  twittering  of  birds,  whose 
nest  is  in  the  covering  thatch,  and  whose  songs 
would  awaken  the  sleeper  at  the  earliest  light  oi 
dawn.  A  better  idea  can  be  obtained  in  this  cot- 
tage than  in  either  -the  birthplace  or  any  other 
Shakespearean  haunt  of  what  the  real  life  actually 
was  of  the  common  people  of  England  in  Shake- 
peare's  day.  The  stone  floor  and  oaken  timbers  of 
the  Hathaway  kitchen,  stained  and  darkened  in  the 
slow  decay  of  three  hundred  years,  have  lost  no 
particle  of  their  pristine  character.  The  occupant 
of  the  cottage  has  not  been  absent  from  it  more 
than  a  week  during  upward  of  half  a  century.  In 
such  a  nook  the  inherited  habits  of  hving  do  not' 
alter.  "  The  thing  that  has  been  is  the  thing  that 
shall  be,"  and  the  customs  of  long  ago  are  the  cus- 
toms of  to-day. 

The  Red  Horse  Inn  is  in  new  hands  now,  and 
seems  to  be  fresher  and  brighter  than  of  old — . 
without,  however,  having  parted  with  either  its 
antique  furniture  or  its  delightful  antique  ways. 
The  old  mahogany  and  wax-candle  period  has  not 
ended  yet,  in  this  happy  place,  and  you  sink  to 
sleep  on  a  snow-white  pillow,  soft  as  down  and 
fragrant  as  lavender.     One  important  change  is 


The  Shrines  of  W'aniiicksJiirc.  75 

especially  to  be  remarked.  They  have  made  a 
niche  in  the  right-hand  corner  of  Washington 
Irving's  parlour,  and  in  it  have  placed  his  arm-chair, 
rccushioncd  and  polished,  and  sequestered  from 
touch  by  a  large  sheet  of  plate-glass.  The  relic 
mny  still  be  seen,  but  the  pilgrim  can  sit  upon  it 
no  more.  Perhaps  it  might  be  well  to  enshrine 
"Geoffrey  Crayon's  Sceptre"  in  a  somewhat  sim- 
ilar way.  It  could  be  fastened  to  a  shield,  dis- 
playing the  American  colours,  and  hung  up  in  this 
storied  little  room.  At  present  it  is  the  tenant  of  a 
muslin  bag  and  keeps  its  state  in  the  seclusion  of  a 
bureau  drawer ;  nor  is  it  shown  excei)t  upon  re- 
quest—  like  the  beautiful  marble  statue  of  Donne, 
in  his  shroud,  niched  in  the  chancel  wall  of  St. 
Paul's  Cathedral. 

One  of  the  strongest  instincts  of  the  English 
character  is  the  instinct  of  permanence.  It  acts 
involuntarily,  it  pervades  the  national  life,  and,  as 
Pope  said  of  the  universal  soul,  it  operates  unspent. 
Institutions  seem  to  have  grown  out  of  human 
nature  in  this  country,  and  are  as  much  its  e.xpres- 
sion  as  blossoms,  leaves,  and  flowers  are  the  expres- 
sion of  inevitable  law.  A  custom,  in  England,  once 
established,  is  seldom  or  never  changed.  The  bril- 
liant career,  the  memorable  achievement,  the  great 
character,  once  fulfilled,  takes  a  permanent  shape 
in  some  kind  of  outward  and  visible  memorial, 
some  absolute  and  palpable  fact,  which  thenceforth 
is  an  accepted  part  of  the  history  of  the  land  and 


76  English  Rambles. 

the  experience  of  its  people.  England  means  sta- 
bility—  the  fireside  and  the  altar,  home  here  and 
heaven  hereafter;  and  this  is  the  secret  of  the 
power  that  she  wields  in  the  affairs  of  the  world 
and  the  charm  that  she  diffuses  over  the  domain 
of  thought.  Such  a  temple  as  St.  Paul's  Cathedral, 
such  a  palace  as  Hampton  Court,  such  a  castle  as 
that  of  Windsor  or  that  of  Warwick,  is  the  natural, 
spontaneous  expression  of  the  English  instinct  of 
permanence ;  and  it  is  in  memorials  like  these  that 
England  has  written  her  history,  with  symbols  that 
can  perish  only  with  time  itself.  At  intervals  her 
latent  animal  ferocity  breaks  loose  —  as  it  did  under 
Henry  the  Eighth,  under  Mary,  under  Cromwell,  and 
under  James  the  Second,  — and  for  a  brief  time  ramps 
and  bellows,  striving  to  deface  and  deform  the  sur- 
rounding structure  of  beauty  that  has  been  slowly 
and  painfully  reared  out  of  her  deep  heart  and  her 
sane  civilization.  But  the  tears  of  human  pity 
soon  quench  the  fires  of  Smithfield,  and  it  is  only 
for  a  little  while  that  the  Puritan  soldiers  play  at 
nine-pins  in  the  nave  of  St.  Paul's.  This  fever  of 
animal  impulse,  this  wild  revolt  of  petulant  im- 
patience, is  soon  cooled  ;  and  then  the  great  work 
goes  on  again,  as  calmly  and  surely  as  before  —  that 
great  work  of  educating  mankind  to  the  level  of 
constitutional  liberty,  in  which  England  has  been 
engaged  for  well  nigh  a  thousand  years,  and  in 
which  the  American  Republic,  though  sometimes 
at  variance  with  her  methods  and  her  spirit,  is, 


The  Shrines  of  \Vat~iuicksItirc.  7  7 

nevertheless,  lier  follower  and  the  consequence  of 
her  example.  Our  Declaration  was  made  in  1776: 
the  Declaration  to  the  Prince  of  Orange  is  dated 
16S9,  and  the  Bill  of  Rights  in  1628,  while  Magna 
Charta  was  secured  in  1215. 

Throughout  every  part  of  this  sumptuous  and 
splendid  domain  of  Warwickshire  the  symbols  of 
English  stability  and  the  relics  of  historic  times  are 
numerous  and  deeply  impressive.  At  Stratford 
the  reverence  of  the  nineteenth  century  takes  its 
practical,  substantial  form,  not  alone  in  the  honour- 
able preservation  of  the  ancient  Shakespearean 
shrines,  but  in  the  Shakespeare  Memorial.  This 
noble  fabric,  though  mainly  due  to  the  fealty  of 
England,  is  also,  to  some  extent,  representative  of 
the  practical  sympathy  of  America.  Several  Amer- 
icans—  Edwin  Booth,  Herman  Vezin,  M.  D.  Con- 
way, and  W.  H.  Reynolds  among  them — are 
contributors  to  the  fund  that  built  it,  and  an  Amer- 
ican gentlewoman,  Miss  Kate  Field,  has  worked 
for  its  cause  with  excellent  zeal,  untiring  fidelity, 
and  good  results.  The  work  is  not  yet  finished. 
About  £2,000  will  be  required  to  complete  the 
tower  and  suitably  decorate  the  interior.  But  al- 
ready it  is  a  noble  monument.  It  stands  upon  tlie 
margin  of  the  Avon,  not  a  great  way  off  from  the 
Church  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  which  is  Shakespeare's 
grave  ;  so  that  these  two  buildings  are  the  conspic- 
uous points  of  the  landscape,  and  seem  to  confront 
each  other  with  sympathetic  greeting,  as  if  con- 


78  jE/iglish  Rambles. 

scious  of  their  sacred  trust.  The  vacant  land  ad- 
jacent, extending  both  ways  between  the  road  and 
the  river,  is  a  part  of  the  Memorial  estate,  and  is  to 
be  converted  into  a  park,  with  winding  pathways  and 
abundance  of  shade-trees  and  of  flowers,  — by 
means  of  which  the  prospect  will  be  made  still 
fairer  than  now  it  is,  and  will  be  kept  forever  un- 
broken between  the  Memorial  and  the  Church. 
Under  this  ample  Tudor  roof  —  so  stately  and  yet 
so  meek  and  quaint  —  are  already  united  a  theatre, 
a  library,  and  a  hall  of  pictures.  The  theatre,  as 
yet,  lacks  requisite  ornament.  Except  for  a  gay 
drop-curtain,  illustrating  the  processional  progress 
of  Queen  Elizabeth  when  "going  to  the  Globe 
Theatre,"  it  is  barren  of  colour  ;  while  its  divisions 
of  seats  are  in  conformity  with  the  inconvenient 
arrangements  of  the  common  London  theatre  of 
to-day.  Queen  Elizabeth  heard  plays  in  the  Hall 
of  the  Middle  Temple,  the  Hall  of  Hampton  Palace, 
and  at  Greenwich  and  Richmond;  but  she  never 
went  to  the  Globe  Theatre.  In  historic  temples 
there  should  be  no  trifling  with  historic  themes  ; 
and  surely,  in  a  theatre  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
dedicated  to  Shakespeare,  while  no  fantastic  regard 
should  be  paid  to  the  usages  of  the  past,  it  would 
be  tasteful  and  proper  to  blend  the  best  of  ancient 
ways  with  all  the  luxury  and  elegance  of  these 
times.  It  is  much,  however,  to  have  built  what 
can  readily  be  made  a  lovely  theatre ;  and  mean- 
while, through  the  affectionate  generosity  of  friends 


The  Shrines  of  Warwickshire.  79 

in  all  parts  of  the  world,  the  Library  shelves  are 
continually  gathering  treasures,  and  the  Hall  of 
Paintings  is  growing  more  and  more  the  imposing 
and  beautiful  expository  that  it  was  intended  to  be 
of  Shakespearean  poetry  and  the  history  of  the 
English  stage.  Many  faces  of  actors  appear  upon 
these  walls  —  from  Garrick  to  Edmund  Kean,  from 
Macready  to  Henry  Irving,  from  Kemble  to  Edwin 
Booth,  from  Mrs.  Siddons  to  Mary  Anderson. 
Prominent  among  the  pictures  is  the  famous  por- 
trait of  (larrick  and  his  wife,  playing  at  cards, 
wherein  the  lovely  laughing  lady  archly  discloses 
that  her  hands  are  full  of  hearts.  Not  otherwise, 
truly,  is  it  with  sweet  and  gentle  Stratford  herself, 
where  peace  and  beauty  and  the  most  hallowed  and 
hallowing  of  poetic  associations  garner  up,  forever 
and  forever,  the  hearts  of  all  mankind. 

In  previous  papers  upon  this  subject  (published 
in  "The  Trip  to  England,"  187S-1SS1),  I  have 
tried  to  express  the  feelings  that  are  aroused  by 
personal  contact  with  the  relics  of  Shakespeare  — 
the  objects  which  he  saw  and  the  fields  through 
which  he  wandered.  Fancy  would  never  tire  of 
lingering  in  this  delicious  region  of  flowers  and  of 
dreams.  From  the  hideous  vileness  of  the  social 
condition  of  London  in  the  time  of  James  the  First, 
Shakespeare  must  indeed  have  rejoiced  to  depart 
into  this  blooming  garden  of  rustic  tranquillity. 
Here  also  he  could  find  the  surroundings  that 
were   needful  to  sustain  him  amid   the  vast  and 


So  English  Rambles. 

overwhelming  labours  of  his  final  period.  No  man, 
however  great  his  powers,  can  ever,  in  this  world, 
escape  from  the  trammels  under  which  nature  en- 
joins and  permits  the  exercise  of  the  brain.  Ease, 
in  the  intellectual  life,  is  always  visionary.  The 
higher  a  man's  faculties  the  higher  are  his  ideals, 
—  toward  which,  under  the  operation  of  a  divine 
law,  he  must  perpetually  strive,  but  to  the  height 
of  which  he  will  never  absolutely  attain.  So,  in- 
evitably, it  was  with  Shakespeare.  But,  although 
genius  cannot  escape  from  itself,  and  is  no  more 
free  than  the  humblest  toiler  in  the  vast  scheme  of 
creation,  it  may  —  and  it  must  —  sometimes  escape 
from  the  world  :  and  this  wise  poet,  of  all  men  else, 
would  surely  recognize  and  strongly  grasp  the 
great  privilege  of  solitude  amidst  the  sweetest  and 
most  soothing  adjuncts  of  natural  beauty.  That 
privilege  he  found  in  the  sparkling  and  fragrant 
gardens  of  Warwick,  the  woods  and  fields  and 
waters  of  Avon,  where  he  had  played  as  a  boy, 
and  where  love  had  laid  its  first  kiss  upon  his  lips, 
and  poetry  first  opened  upon  his  inspired  vision  the 
eternal  glories  of  her  celestial  world.  It  still 
abides  there,  for  every  gentle  soul  that  can  feel  its 
influence  —  to  deepen  the  glow  of  noble  passion, 
to  soften  the  sting  of  grief,  and  to  touch  the  lips  of 
worship  with  a  fresh  sacrament  of  patience  and 
beauty. 


X. 


A   BORROWER   OF   THE   NIGHT. 


"  I  mtcst  become  a  borrower  of  the  night, 
For  a  dark  hour  or  twain."    Macbeth. 

MIDNIGHT  has  just  sounded  from  the  tower 
of  St.  Martin's  Church.  It  is  a  peaceful 
night,  faintly  lit  with  stars,  and  in  the  region  round 
about  Trafalgar  Square  a  dream-like  stillness  broods 
over  the  darkened  city,  now  slowly  hushing  itself  to 
its  brief  and  troubled  rest.  This  is  the  centre  of 
the  heart  of  modern  civilization,  the  very  middle 
of  the  greatest  city  in  the  world  —  the  vast,  seeth- 
ing alembic  of  a  grand  future,  the  stately  monument 
of  a  deathless  past.  Here,  alone,  in  my  quiet  room 
of  this  old  English  inn,  let  me  meditate  awhile  on 
6 


§2  English  Rambles. 

some  of  the  scenes  that  are  near  me  —  the  strange, 
romantic,  sad,  grand  objects  that  I  have  seen,  the 
memorable  figures  of  beauty,  genius,  and  renown 
that  haunt  this  classic  land. 

How  solemn  and  awful  now  must  be  the  gloom 
within  the  walls  of  the  Abbey.  A  walk  of  only  a 
few  minutes  would  bring  me  to  its  gates  —  the  gates 
of  the  most  renowned  mausoleum  on  earth.  No 
human  foot  to-night  invades  its  sacred  precincts. 
The  dead  alone  possess  it.  I  see,  upon  its  gray 
walls,  the  marble  figures,  white  and  spectral,  staring 
through  the  darkness.  I  hear  the  night-wind  moan- 
ing around  its  lofty  towers  and  faintly  sobbing  in 
the  dim,  mysterious  spaces  beneath  its  fretted  roof. 
Here  and  there  a  ray  of  starlight,  streaming  through 
the  sumptuous  rose  window,  falls  and  lingers,  in 
ruby  or  emerald  gleam,  on  tomb,  or  pillar,  or  dusky 
pav^ement.  Rustling  noises,  vague  and  fearful,  float 
from  those  dim  chapels  where  the  great  kings  lie  in 
state,  with  marble  efifigies  recumbent  above  their 
bones.  At  such  an  hour  as  this,  in  such  a  place, 
do  the  dead  come  out  of  their  graves  ?  The  res- 
olute, implacable  Queen  Elizabeth,  the  beautiful, 
wretched  Queen  of  Scots,  the  two  royal  boys  mur- 
dered in  the  Tower,  Charles  the  Merry  and  William 
the  Silent  —  are  these,  and  such  as  these,  among 
the  phantoms  that  fill  the  haunted  aisles  ?  What  a 
wonderful  company  it  would  be,  for  human  eyes  to 
behold !  And  with  what  passionate  love  or  hatred, 
what  amazement,  or  what  haughty  scorn,  its  mem- 


A   Borrower  of  the  Night.  83 

bers  would  look  upon  each  other's  faces,  in  this 
miraculous  meeting  !  Here,  through  the  glimmer- 
ing, icy  waste,  would  pass  before  the  watcher  the 
august  shades  of  the  poets  of  five  hundred  years. 
Now  would  glide  the  ghosts  of  Chaucer,  Spenser, 
Jonson,  Beaumont,  Dryden,  Cowley,  Congreve, 
Addison,  Prior,  Campbell,  Garrick,  Burke,  Sheri- 
dan, Newton,  and  Macaulay  —  children  of  divine 
genius,  that  here  mingled  with  the  earth.  The 
grim  Edward,  who  so  long  ravaged  Scotland  ;  the 
blunt,  chivalrous  Henry,  who  conquered  France; 
the  lovely,  lamentable  victim  at  Pomfret,  and  the 
harsh,  haughty,  astute  victor  at  Bosworth;  James 
with  his  babbling  tongue,  and  William  with  his 
impassive,  predominant  visage  — they  would  all  min- 
gle with  the  spectral  multitude,  and  vanish  into  the 
gloom.  Gentler  faces,  too,  might  here  once  more 
reveal  their  loveliness  and  their  grief — Eleanor 
de  Bohun,  broken-hearted  for  her  murdered  lord ; 
Elizabeth  Claypole,  the  meek,  merciful,  beloved 
daughter  of  Cromwell ;  Matilda,  Queen  to  Henry  the 
First,  and  model  of  every  grace  and  virtue  ;  and 
poor  Anne  Nevil,  destroyed  by  the  baleful  passion 
of  Gloster.  Strange  sights,  truly,  in  the  lonesome 
Abbey  to-night ! 

In  the  sombre  crypt  beneath  St.  Paul's  Cathedral, 
how  thrilling  now  must  be  the  heavy  stillness.  No 
sound  can  enter  there.  No  breeze  from  the  upper 
world  can  stir  the  dust  upon  those  massive  sepul- 
chres.    Even  in  day-time  that  shadowy  vista,  with 


84  English  Rambles. 

its  groined  arches,  and  the  black  tombs  of  Welling- 
ton and  Nelson,  and  the  ponderous  funeral-car  of 
the  Iron  Duke,  is  seen  with  a  shudder.  How 
strangely,  how  fearfully  the  mind  would  be  im- 
pressed, of  him  who  should  wander  there  to-ni<^ht! 
What  sublime  reflections  would  be  his,  standino- 
beside  the  ashes  of  the  great  Admiral,  and  thinking 
of  that  fiery,  dauntless  spirit— so  simple,  resolute, 
and  true— who  made  the  earth  and  the  seas  alike 
resound  with  the  splendid  tumult  of  his  deeds. 
Somewhere  beneath  this  pavement  is  the  dust  of 
Sir  Philip  Sidney  —  buried  here  before  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  old  cathedral,  in  the  great  fire  of  1666  — 
and  here,  too,  is  the  nameless  grave  of  the  mighty 
Duke  of  Lancaster,  John  of  Gaunt.  Shakespeare 
was  only  twenty-two  years  old  when  Sidney  fell,  at 
the  battle  of  Zutphen,  and,  being  then  resident  in 
London,  he  might  readily  have  seen,  and  doubtless 
did  see,  the  splendid  funeral  procession  with  which 
the  body  of  that  heroic  gentleman  —  radiant  and 
immortal  example  of  perfect  chivalry  —  was  borne 
to  the  tomb.  Hither  came  Henry  of  Hereford  —  re- 
turning from  exile  and  deposing  the  handsome, 
visionary,  useless  Richard  —  to  mourn  over  the 
relics  of  his  father,  dead  of  sorrow  for  his  son's 
absence  and  his  country's  shame.  Here,  at  the 
venerable  age  of  ninety-one,  the  glorious  brain  of 
Wren  found  rest  at  last,  beneath  the  stupendous 
temple  that  himself  had  reared.  The  watcher  in 
the  crypt  to-night  would  see,  perchance,  or  fancy 


A  Borrower  of  the  Nig/it.  85 

that  he  saw,  these  figures  from  the  storied  past. 
Beneath  this  roof— the  soul  and  the  perfect  symbol 
of  sublimity!  — are  ranged  more  than  fourscore 
monuments  to  heroic  martial  persons  who  have 
died  for  England,  by  land  or  sea.  Here,  too,  are 
gathered,  in  everlasting  repose,  the  honoured  relics 
of  men  who  were  famous  in  the  arts  of  peace. 
Reynolds  and  Opie,  Lawrence  and  West,  Landseer, 
Turner,  Cruikshank,  and  many  more,  sleep  under 
the  sculptured  pavement  where  now  the  pilgrim 
walks.  For  fit"teen  centuries  a  Christian  church 
has  stood  upon  this  spot,  and  through  it  has  poured, 
with  organ  strains  and  glancing  lights,  an  endless 
procession  of  prelates  and  statesmen,  of  poets  and 
warriors  and  kings.  Surely  this  is  hallowed  and 
haunted  ground  !  Surely  to  him  the  spirits  of  the 
mighty  dead  would  be  very  near,  who  —alone,  in 
the  darkness  —  should  stand  to-night  within  those 
sacred  walls,  and  hear,  beneath  that  awful  dome, 
the  mellow  thunder  of  the  bells  of  God. 

How  looks,  to-night,  the  interior  of  the  chapel 
of  the  Foundling  Hospital?  Dark  and  lonesome, 
no  doubt,  with  its  heavy  galleries  and  sombre  pews, 
and  the  great  organ — Handel's  gift  —  standing 
there,  mute  and  grim,  between  the  ascending  tiers 
of  empty  seats.  But  never,  in  my  remembrance, 
will  it  cease  to  present  a  picture  more  impressive 
and  touching  than  words  can  say.  At  least  three 
hundred  children,  rescued  from  shame  and  penury 
by  this  noble  benevolence,  were  ranged  around  that 


86  English  Rambles. 

organ  when  I  saw  it,  and,  in  their  artless,  frail  little 
voices,  singing  a  hymn  of  praise  and  worship. 
Well  nigh  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  have  passed 
since  this  grand  institution  of  charity  —  the  sacred 
work  and  blessed  legacy  of  Captain  Thomas  Coram 
—  was  established  in  this  place.  What  a  divine 
good  it  has  accomplished,  and  continues  to  ac- 
complish, and  what  a  pure  glory  hallows  its 
founder's  name  !  Here  the  poor  mother,  betrayed 
and  deserted,  may  take  her  child,  and  find  for  it  a 
safe  and  happy  home,  and  a  chance  in  life  —  nor 
will  she  herself  be  turned  adrift  without  sympathy 
and  helj).  The  poet  and  novelist,  George  Croly, 
was  once  chaplain  of  the  Foundling  Hospital,  and 
he  preached  some  noble  sermons  there  ;  but  these 
were  thought  to  be  above  the  comprehension  of  his 
usual  audience,  and  he  presently  resigned  the  place. 
It  was  an  aged  clergyman  who  preached  there 
within  my  hearing,  and  I  remember  he  consumed 
the  most  part  of  an  hour  in  saying  that  a  good  way 
in  which  to  keep  the  tongue  from  speaking  evil  is 
to  keep  the  heart  kind  and  pure.  Better  than  any 
sermon,  though,  was  the  spectacle  of  those  poor 
children,  rescued  out  of  their  helplessness  and 
reared  in  comfort  and  aifection.  Several  fine  works 
of  art  are  owned  by  this  hospital  and  shown  to  vis- 
itors—  paintings  by  Gainsborough  and  Reynolds, 
and  a  portrait  of  Captain  Coram,  by  Hogarth. 
May  the  turf  lie  lightly  on  him,  wheresoever  he  rests, 
and  daisies  and  violets  deck  his  hallowed  grave ! 


A  Borrower  of  the  Night.  87 

No  man  ever  did  a  better  deed  than  he,  and  the 
darkest  night  that  ever  was  cannot  darken  his 
fame. 

How  dim  and  silent  now  are  all  those  narrow  and 
dingy  little  streets  and  lanes  around  Paul's  Church- 
yard and  the  Temple,  where  Johnson  and  Goldsmith 
loved  to  ramble  !  More  than  once  have  I  wan- 
dered there,  in  the  late  hours  of  the  night,  meeting 
scarce  a  human  creature,  but  conscious  of  a  royal 
company  indeed,  of  the  wits  and  poets  and  players 
of  a  far-off  time.  Darkness  now,  on  busy  Smith- 
field,  where  once  the  frequent,  cruel  flames  of  big- 
otry shed  forth  a  glare  that  sickened  the  light  of 
day.  Murky  and  grim  enough  to-night  is  that 
grand  processional  walk  in  St.  Bartholomew's 
Chapel,  where  the  great  gray  pillars  and  splendid 
Norman  arches  of  the  twelfth  century  are  moulder- 
ing in  neglect  and  decay.  Sweet  to  fancy  and  dear 
in  recollection,  the  old  church  comes  back  to  me 
now,  with  the  sound  of  children's  voices  and  the 
wail  of  the  organ  strangely  breaking  on  its  pensive 
rest.  Stillness  and  peace  over  arid  Bunhill  fields 
—  the  last  haven  of  many  a  Puritan  worthy,  and 
hallowed  to  many  a  pilgrim  as  the  resting-place  of 
Bunyan  and  of  Watts.  In  many  a  park  and  gloomy 
square  the  watcher  now  would  hear  only  a  rustling 
of  leaves  or  the  fretful  twitter  of  half-awakened 
birds.  Around  Primrose  Hill  and  out  toward 
Hampstead  many  a  night-walk  have  I  taken,  that 
seemed  like  rambling  in  a  desert  — so  dark  and 


88  E72gUsh  Rambles. 

still  are  the  walled  houses,  so  perfect  is  the  solitude. 
In  Drury  Lane,  even  at  this  late  hour,  there  would 
be  some  movement ;  but  cold  and  dense  as  ever 
the  shadows  are  resting  on  that  little  graveyard, 
behind  it,  where  Lady  Dedlock  went  to  die.  The 
place,  it  is  a  comfort  to  know,  has  been  cleaned,  of 
late,  and  is  now  decent  and  in  order  —  as  all  such 
places  should  be.  To  walk  in  Bow  Street  now, — 
might  it  not  be  to  meet  the  shades  of  Waller  and 
Wycherly  and  Betterton,  who  lived  and  died  there  ; 
to  have  a  greeting  from  the  silver-tongued  Barry ; 
or  to  see,  in  draggled  lace  and  ruffles,  the  stalwart 
figure  and  flushed  and  roystering  countenance  of 
Henry  Fielding  ?  Very  quiet  now  are  those  grim 
stone  chambers  in  the  terrible  Tower  of  London, 
where  so  many  tears  have  fallen  and  so  many 
noble  hearts  been  split  with  sorrow.  Does  Brack- 
enbury  still  kneel  in  the  cold,  lonely,  and  vacant 
chapel  of  St.  John  ;  or  the  sad  ghost  of  Monmouth 
hover  in  the  chancel  of  St.  Peter's?  How  sweet 
to-night  would  be  the  rustle  of  the  ivy  on  the  dark 
walls  of  Hadley  Church,  where  so  lately  I  breathed 
the  rose-scented  air  and  heard  the  warbling  thrush, 
and  blessed,  with  a  grateful  heart,  the  loving-kind- 
ness that  makes  such  beauty  in  the  world.  Out 
there  on  the  hill-side  of  Highgate,  populous  with 
death,  the  starlight  gleams  on  many  a  ponderous 
tomb  and  the  white  marble  of  many  a  sculptured 
statue,  where  dear  and  famous  names  will  lure  the 
traveller's  footsteps,   for   years   to  come.     There 


A  Borrower  of  the  Night.  89 

Lyndhurst  rests,  in  honour  and  peace,  and  there  is 
hushed  the  tuneful  voice  of  Dempster  —  never  to 
be  heard  any  more,  either  when  snows  are  flying, 
or  "when  green  leaves  come  again."  Not  many 
days  have  passed  since  I  stood  there,  by  the  humble 
gravestone  of  poor  Charles  Harcourt,  and  remem- 
bered all  the  gentle  enthusiasm  with  which,  five 
years  ago  (1877),  he  spoke  to  me  of  the  character 
oi  Jacques  —  which  he  loved  —  and  how  well  he  re- 
peated the  immortal  lines  upon  the  drama  of  human 
life.  For  him  the  "  strange,  eventful  history " 
came  early  and  suddenly  to  an  end.  May  peace 
be  with  him — who  here  made  only  comfort  and  joy 
for  all  around  him  !  In  this  ground,  too,  I  saw  the 
sculptured  medallion  of  the  well-beloved  George 
Honey  —  "all  his  frolics  o'er,"  and  nothing  left  but 
this.  Many  a  golden  moment  did  we  have,  old 
friend,  and  by  me  thou  art  not  forgotten !  The 
lapse  of  a  few  years  changes  the  whole  face  of  life  ; 
but  nothing  can  ever  take  from  us  our  memories  of 
the  past.  Here,  around  me,  in  the  still  watches  of 
the  night,  are  the  faces  that  will  never  smile  again, 
and  the  voices  that  will  speak  no  more  —  Sothern, 
with  his  sih'cry  hair  and  bright  and  kindly  smile, 
from  that  crowded  corner  of  the  little  churchyard 
of  Southampton ;  and  droll  Harry  Beckett,  and 
poor  Adelaide  Neilson,  from  the  dismal  cemetery 
of  Brompton.  And  if  I  look  from  yonder  window 
I  shall  not  see  either  the  lions  of  Landseer  or  the 
homeless  and  vagrant  wretches  who  sleep  around 


90 


English  Rainbles. 


them;  but  high  in  her  silver  chariot,  surrounded 
with  all  the  pomp  and  splendour  that  royal  England 
knows,  and  marching  to  her  coronation  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  the  beautiful  figure  of  Anne  Boleyn, 
with  her  dark  eyes  full  of  triumph,  and  her  mane  of 
golden  hair  flashing  in  the  sun.  On  this  spot  is 
written  the  whole  history  of  a  mighty  empire. 
Here  are  garnered  up  such  loves  and  hopes,  such 
memories  and  sorrows,  as  never  can  be  spoken. 
Pass,  ye  shadows !  Let  the  night  wane  and  the 
morning  break. 


IN   MEMORY   OF   LONGFELLOW. 

1SS2. 


I. 


THE    POET'S    DEATH. 


THE  fact  of  Longfellow's  death  comes  home  to 
hundreds  of  hearts  with  a  sense  of  personal 
loss  and  bereavement.  The  lovable  quality  in  his 
writings,  which  was  the  natural  and  spontaneous 
reflex  of  the  gentle  tenderness  of  his  nature,  had 
endeared  him  not  less  as  a  man  than  as  a  poet. 
To  read  him  was  to  know  him,  and,  as  Halleck  said 
of  Drake,  to  know  him  was  to  love  him  ;  so  that  his 
readers  were,  in  fact,  his  affectionate  friends.  The 
reading  of  Longfellow  is  like  sitting  by  the  fireside 
of  a  sympathetic  and  cherished  companion.  The 
atmosphere  of  his  works  has  the  refinement  and 
elegance  of  a  sumptuous  and  well-ordered  library  ; 
but  also  it  has  the  soft  tranquillity  and  smihng 
contentment  of  a  happy  home. 


94  Longfellow. 

To  any  one  who  ever  was,  in  fact,  privileged  to 
sit  by  the  fireside  of  the  poet,  the  thought  that  he 
is  lying  there  in  death  is  almost  inconceivable,  and 
brings  with  it  an  overwhelming  solemnity.  No 
man  ever  diffused  around  himself  a  more  radiant 
influence  of  life,  cheerfulness,  and  vigorous  hope 
than  Longfellow  did,  beneath  his  own  roof.  He 
was  not,  indeed,  a  demonstrative  person  ;  he  did 
not  overflow  with  effusion,  or  cover  by  a  boisterous 
heartiness  the  absence  of  a  sincere  welcome.  But 
he  never  failed  to  do  the  right  thing  in  the  right 
way,  or  to  say  the  right  word  at  the  right  time. 
He  was  thoughtful  for  every  one  who  approached 
him.  He  knew  by  unerring  intuition  the  ways  of 
true  grace  — which  flow  out  of  true  kindness.  He 
was  entirely  frank  and  simple,  bearing  himself 
always  with  gentle  dignity,  and  speaking  always 
with  a  quiet  sweetness  that  was  inexpressibly  win- 
ning. With  youth  in  particular  he  had  a  profound 
and  comprehensive  sympathy.  He  understood  all 
its  ardours  and  aspirations,  its  confusion  in  presence 
of  the  mysteries  of  life,  its  embarrassments  amid 
unfamiliar  surroundings,  its  craving  for  recognition, 
its  sensitive  heart,  and  its  dream-like  spirit.  "The 
thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts."  To 
the  last  day  of  his  life  he  carried  this  mood  of 
youth  ;  and  no  one  ever  heard  from  his  hps  a  word 
of  satire  or  discouragement.  His  first  and  greatest 
impulse  was  sympathy.  In  domestic  hfe  this  dis- 
played itself  in  a  constant,  unobtrusive  solicitude 


The  Poefs  Death.  95 

for  the  comfort  of  all  around  him,  and  in  a  tliou- 
sand  little  courtesies  which  equally  adorned  his 
conduct  and  comforted  his  associates.  In  his 
writings  it  is  the  lambent  flame  of  every  page. 

Yet  there  was  no  element  of  insipidity  in  his 
character.  If  he  preferred  always  to  see  the  most 
agreeable  side,  and  to  speak  always  the  most  agree- 
able word,  it  was  not  that  he  was  blind  to  defects, 
or  assiduous  to  please,  or  insincere,  or  acquisitive 
of  popularity.  When  occasion  required  it  he  spoke 
his  convictions,  whether  acceptable  or  otherwise, 
fully  and  firmly,  and  he  could  rebuke  injustice  or 
ill-breeding  with  a  cool  censure  that  was  all  the 
more  implacable  for  its  calmness  and  reserve.  He 
never  obtruded  his  scholarship,  but  if  the  drift  of 
conversation  carried  him  that  way,  he  tinted  his  dis- 
course with  many  a  shining  ray  of  knowledge  and 
many  a  coloured  flash  of  anecdote,  with  citations 
from  a  wide  range  of  books,  and  with  a  peculiar, 
dry,  half-veiled  drollery  tliat  was  kindly,  mischiev- 
ous, and  delijrhtfully  pungent.  His  tolerance  was 
neither  a  weakness  nor  an  artifice :  it  was  the  out- 
growtli  of  constitutional  charity  and  tenderness 
toward  that  human  nature  of  -which  he  possessed 
so  much,  and  which  he  knew  so  well. 

Those  who  remember  him  in  early  years  say 
that  he  was  remarkable  for  personal  beauty  and 
for  the  perfect  order  and  refinement  of  his  life 
and  manners.  From  the  first  he  seems  to  have 
possessed  the   composure  of  high  poetic  genius. 


g6  Longfellow. 

Those  who  think  that  he  was  passionless,  and 
that  he  knew  little  or  nothing  of  tragedy,  must 
have  read  to  but  little  purpose  such  poems  as 
"The  Goblet  of  Life,"  "The  Light  of  Stars,"  or 
the  closing  chapters  of  "Hyperion."  Even  his 
familiar  ballad  of  "  The  Bridge  "  is  eloquent  of  a 
profound  knowledge  of  grief;  and  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  our  language  contains  a  more  absolute 
poetic  note  of  anguish  and  fortitude  —  when  one 
considers  its  bleak  isolation  and  its  mournful  sig- 
nificance— than  his  lines  called  "Weariness."  He 
was  not  a  Byron.  His  poetry  is  not  the  poetry  of 
storm  and  stress.  The  "banner,  torn  but  flying," 
which  "streams  like  a  thunder-storm  against  the 
wind,"  is  nowhere  unfurled  in  all  his  writings. 
But,  if  he  did  not  utter  the  conflict,  he  clearly  and 
sweetly  uttered  the  consciousness  of  it,  and  the 
grand  clarion  note  of  patience  and  conquest.  Of 
the  trials  and  cares  that  are  common  to  human- 
ity, and  that  can  be  named  and  known,  he  had 
his  share  ;  but  also  he  had  the  experience  which 
the  poetic  nature  invariably  and  inevitably  draws 
upon  itself.  He  had  felt  all  that  Burns  felt,  in 
writing  "To  Mary  in  Heaven."  He  had  felt  all 
that  Goethe  felt,  in  writing  that  wonderful  passage 
of  "  Faust  "  which  ends  with  the  curse  on  patience 
as  the  worst  of  our  human  afflictions.  But  he 
would  suffer  no  shock  of  sorrow  to  turn  his  life 
into  a  delirium.  He  would  meet  every  trouble  as  a 
man  ought  to  meet  it  who  believes  in  the  immortal 


The  Pods  Death.  97 

destiny  of  the  human  soul.  When  he  lost,  under 
circumstances  so  pathetic  and  tragical,  twenty 
years  ago  (1861),  the  wife  whom  he  so  entirely 
loved  (that  beautifid  and  stately  lady,  whom  to  re- 
member is  to  wonder  that  so  much  loveliness  and 
worth  could  take  a  mortal  shape),  he  took  the  ter- 
rible anguish  into  the  silent  chambers  of  his  own 
heart,  he  bore  it  with  unflinching  and  uncomplain- 
ing fortitude  ;  and  from  that  day  to  this,  no  reader 
of  his  writings  has  been  visited  with  one  repining 
murmur,  one  plea  for  sympathy,  one  wail  of  per- 
sonal loneliness  or  despondency  or  misanthropical 
bitterness.  All  that  was  ever  shown  of  that  misery 
was  the  simple  grandeur  of  endurance  combined 
with  even  a  more  wistful  and  readier  and  deeper 
sympathy  with  the  sorrows  of  mankind. 

There  are  poets,  and  good  ones  too,  who  seem 
never  to  get  beyond  the  necessity  of  utterance  for 
their  own  sake.  Longfellow  was  not  an  egotist. 
He  thought  of  others ;  and  the  permanent  value 
of  his  writings  consists  in  this  —  that  he  helped  to 
utter  the  emotions  of  the  universal  human  heart.  It 
is  when  a  writer  speaks  for  us  what  were  else  un- 
spoken—  setting  our  minds  free  and  giving  us 
strength  to  meet  the  cares  of  life  and  the  hour  of 
death  — that  he  first  becomes  of  any  real  value. 
Longfellow  has  done  this  for  thousands  of  human 
beings,  and  done  it  in  that  language  of  perfect 
simplicity  —  never  bald,  never  insipid,  never  fail- 
ing to  e.xalt  the  subject —  which  is  at  once  the  most 
7 


98  Longfellow. 

beautiful  and  the  most  difficult  of  all  the  elements 
of  literature.  And  the  high  thoughts  and  tender 
feelings  that  he  has  thus  spoken,  the  limpid,  soft, 
and  tranquil  strain  of  his  music  —  breathing  out  so 
truly  our  home  loves,  our  tender  longing  for  those 
that  are  dead  and  gone,  the  trust  that  we  all  would 
cherish  in  a  happy  future  beyond  the  grave,  the 
purpose  to  work  nobly  and  endure  bravely  while 
we  live  —  will  sound  on  in  the  ears  of  the  world, 
long  after  every  hand  and  heart  that  honours  him 
or  grieves  for  him  to-day  is  mouldering  in  the 
dust. 


II. 


PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS. 


THE  least  of  us  who  have  recollections  of  such 
a  man  as  Longfellow  may  surely  venture, 
now,  to  add  them  to  the  general  stock  of  know- 
ledge, without  incurring  the  reproach  of  intrusive- 
ness.  My  remembrance  of  him  goes  back  to  a 
period  about  thirty  years  ago,  when  he  was  a  pro- 
fessor in  Harvard  L^niversity.  I  had  read  every 
line  he  had  then  published,  and  such  was  the  affec- 
tion he  inspired,  even  in  a  boyish  mind,  that  on 
many  a  summer  night  I  walked  several  miles,  to 
his  house,  only  to  put  my  hand  upon  the  latch  of 
his  gate,  which  he  himself  had  touched.  More 
than  any  one  else  among  the  many  famous  persons 
whom,  since  then,  it  has  been  my  fortune  to  know, 


loo  Longfellow. 

he  aroused  this  feeling  of  mingled  tenderness  and 
reverence.  I  saw  him  often  —  walking  in  the 
streets  of  Cambridge  or  looking  at  the  books,  in 
the  old  shop  of  Ticknor  and  Fields,  at  the  corner 
of  Washington  and  School  Streets,  in  Boston  — 
long  before  I  was  honoured  with  his  personal  ac- 
quaintance; and  I  oljserved  liim  closely  —  as  a 
youth  naturally  observes  the  object  of  his  hon- 
est admiration.  His  dignity  and  grace,  and  the 
beautiful  refinement  of  his  countenance,  together 
with  his  perfect  taste  in  dress  and  the  exquisite 
simplicity  of  his  manners,  made  him  the  absolute 
ideal  of  what  a  poet  should  be.  His  voice,  too, 
was  soft,  sweet,  and  musical,  and,  like  his  face,  it 
had  the  innate  charm  of  tranquillity.  His  eyes 
were  blue-gray,  very  bright  and  brave,  changeable 
under  the  influence  of  emotion  (as,  afterward,  I 
often  saw),  but  mostly  calm,  grave,  attentive,  and 
gentle.  The  habitual  expression  of  his  face  was 
not  that  of  sadness;  and  yet  it  was  pensive.  Per- 
haps it  may  be  best  described  as  that  of  serious 
and  tender  thoughlfulness.  He  had  conquered  his 
own  sorrows,  thus  far,  but  the  sorrows  of  others 
threw  their  shadow  over  him  —  as  he  sweetly  and 
humanely  says  in  his  pathetic  ballad  of  "  The 
Bridge."  One  day  (after  he  had  bestowed  on  me 
the  honour  and  blessing  of  his  friendship,  which, 
thank  God,  I  never  lost)  he  chanced  to  stop  his 
carriage  just  in  front  of  the  old  Tudor  Building, 
in  Court  Street,  Boston,  to  speak  to  me  ;    and  I 


Personal  Recollections.  loi 

remember  observing  then  tlie  sweet,  wistful,  half- 
sad,  far-away  look  in  his  sensitive  face,  and  think- 
ing he  looked  like  a  man  who  had  suffered,  or 
might  yet  suffer,  great  affliction.  There  was  a 
strange  touch  of  sorrowful  majesty  and  prophetic 
fortitude  commingled  with  the  composure  and  kind- 
ness of  his  features. 

It  was  in  April,  1S54,  that  I  became  personally 
acquainted  with  LonL;fcllow,  and  he  was  the  first 
literary  friend  I  ever  had  —  greeting  me  as  a  young 
aspirant  in  literature,  and  holding  out  to  me  the 
hand  of  fellowship  and  encouragement.  He  allowed 
me  to  dedicate  to  him  a  volume  of  my  verses,  pub- 
lished in  that  year,  being  the  first  of  my  ventures. 
They  were  juvenile  and  crude  verses ;  yet  he  was 
tolerant  of  them,  because  he  knew  the  sincerity  of 
heart  and  ambition  of  spirit  that  lay  beneath  them, 
and,  in  his  far-reaching  charity  and  prescience,  he 
must  have  thought  that  something  good  might 
come,  even  of  such  a  poor  beginning.  At  all 
events,  where  others  were  cold,  or  satirical,  or  con- 
temptuous, he  was  kind,  cordial,  and  full  of  cheer. 
A  few  words  in  lenient  commendation  of  the  book 
had  been  written  by  N.  P.  Willis,  and  the  para- 
graph happened  to  come  in  his  way.  He  was 
pleased  witli  it,  and  I  can  hear  now  the  hearty 
tone  in  which  he  spoke  of  it,  turning  to  Mrs.  Long- 
fellow, who  was  present,  and  saying,  with  an  obvi- 
ous relish  of  good-will :  "There  is  much  kindness 
in  Willis's   nature."     This  was   a  httle  trait,  but 


I0  2  Longfellow. 

it  is  of  little  traits  that  the  greatest  human  char- 
acter is  composed.  Goodness,  generosity,  and  a 
large  liberality  of  judgment  were,  in  his  character, 
conspicuous  elements.  His  spontaneous  desire  — 
the  natural  instinct  of  his  great  heart  and  massive, 
philosophic  mind  —  was  to  be  helpful:  to  lift  up 
the  lowly  ;  to  strengthen  the  weak  ,  to  bring  out 
the  best  in  every  person  ;  to  dry  every  tear,  and 
make  every  pathway  smooth.  It  is  saying  but 
little  to  say  that  he  never  spoke  a  harsh  word,  ex- 
cept against  injustice  and  wrong.  He  was  the 
natural  friend  and  earnest  advocate  of  every  good 
cause  and  right  idea.  His  words  about  the  absent 
were  always  considerate,  and  he  never  lost  a  prac- 
tical opportunity  of  doing  good. 

For  the  infirmities  of  humanity  he  was  charity  it- 
self, and  he  shrank  from  harshness  as  from  a  posi- 
tive sin.  "It  is  the  prerogative  of  the  poet,''  he 
once  said  to  me,  in  those  old  days,  "to  give  pleas- 
ure ;  but  it  is  the  critic's  province  to  give  pain." 
He  had,  indeed,  but  a  slender  esteem  for  the  critic's 
province.  Yet  his  tolerant  nature  found  excuses 
for  even  as  virulent  and  hostile  a  critic  as  his  assail- 
ant and  traducer  Edgar  Allan  Poe  —  of  whom  I 
have  heard  him  speak  with  genuine  pity  His  words 
were  few  and  unobtrusive,  and  they  clearly  indicated 
his  consciousness  that  Poe  had  grossly  abused  and 
maligned  him  \  but  instead  of  resentment  for  injury 
they  displayed  only  sorrow  for  an  unfortunate  and 
half-crazed  adversary.     There  was  a  little  volume 


Personal  Recollections.  103 

of  Poe's  poems  —  an  English  edition  —  on  the 
hbrary  table,  and  at  si!;ht  of  this  I  was  prompted 
to  ask  Longfellow  if  Poe  had  ever  personally  met 
him  —  "because,"  I  said,  '"if  he  had  known  you, 
it  is  impossible  he  could  have  written  about  you  in 
such  a  manner."  He  answered  that  he  had  never 
seen  Poe,  and  that  the  bitterness  was,  doubtless, 
due  to  a  deplorable  literary  jealousy.  Then,  after 
a  pause  of  musing,  he  added,  very  gravely:  ''My 
works  seemed  to  give  him  much  trouble,  first  and 
last ;  but  Mr.  Poe  is  dead  and  gone,  and  I  am 
alive  and  still  writing  —  and  that  is  the  end  of  the 
matter.  I  never  condescended  to  answer  i\Ir.  Poe's 
attacks  ;  and  I  would  advise  you  now,  at  the  out- 
set of  your  literary  life,  never  to  take  notice  of 
any  attacks  that  may  be  made  upon  you.  Let  them 
all  pass."  He  then  took  up  the  volume  of  Poe, 
and,  turning  the  leaves,  particularly  commended 
the  stanzas  entitled  "  For  Annie "  and  "  The 
Haunted  Palace.'"  Then,  still  speaking  of  criticism, 
he  mentioned  the  great  number  of  newspaper  and 
magazine  articles,  about  his  own  writings,  that  were 
received  by  him  —  sent,  apparently,  by  their  writers. 
"  I  look  at  the  first  few  lines,"  he  said,  "and  if  I 
find  that  the  article  has  been  written  in  a  pleasant 
spirit,  I  read  it  through  ;  but  if  I  find  that  the  in- 
tention is  to  wound,  I  drop  the  paper  into  my  fire, 
and  so  dismiss  it.  In  that  way  one  escapes  much 
annoyance." 

Longfellow  liked  to  talk  of  young  poets,  and  he 


1 04  Longfellow. 

had  an  equally  humorous  and  kind  way  of  notic- 
ing the  foibles  of  the  literary  character.     Standing 
in  the  porch,  one  summer  day,  and  observing  the 
noble  elms  in  front  of  his  house,  he  recalled  a  visit 
made  to  him,  long  before,  by  one  of  the  many  bards, 
now  extinct,  who  are  embalmed  in  Griswold.     Then 
suddenly  assuming  a  burly,  martial  air,  he  seemed 
to  reproduce  for  me  the  exact  figure  and  manner  of 
the  youthful  enthusiast  —  who  had  tossed  back  his 
long  hair,  gazed  approvingly  on  the  elms,  and  in 
a  deep  voice  exclaimed,  "  I  see,  Mr.  Longfellow, 
that  you  have  many  trees  —  I  love  trees!!"     "It 
was,"  said  the  poet,  "as  if  he  gave  a  certificate  to 
all  the  neighbouring  vegetation."    A  few  words  like 
these,  said   in  Longfellow's   peculiar,  dry,  humor- 
ous manner,  with  a  twinkle  of  the  eye  and  a  quietly 
droll  inflection  of  the  voice,  had  a  certain  charm  of 
mirth  that  cannot  be  described.     It  was  that  same 
demure  playfulness  which  led  him,  when  writing, 
to  speak  of  the  lady  who  wore  flowers  "  on  the  con- 
gregation  side  of   her   bonnet,"  or  to  extol  those 
broad,  magnificent  western  roads,  which  "dwindle 
to  a  squirrel-track,  and  run  up  a  tree."     He  had  no 
particle  of  the  acidity  of  sparkling  and  biting  wit; 
but  he  had  abundant,  playful  humour,  that  was  full 
of  kindness,  and  that  toyed  good-naturedly  with  all 
the  trifles  of  life.     That  such  a  sense  of  fun  should 
be  amused  by  the  ludicrous  peculiarities  of  a  juve- 
nile bard  was  inevitable. 

I  recall  many  talks  with  him,  about  poetry  and 


Personal  Recollections.  105 

the  avenues  of  literary  labour,  and  the  discipline 
of  the  mind  in  youth.  His  counsel  was  always 
summed  up  in  two  words  —  calmness  and  patience. 
He  did  not  believe  in  seeking  experience,  or  in 
going  to  meet  burdens.  "What  you  desire  will 
come,  if  you  will  but  wait  for  it "  —  that  he  said  to 
me  again  and  again.  "My  ambition  once  was," 
he  remarked,  "to  edit  a  magazine.  Since  then 
the  opportunity  has  been  offered  to  me  many 
times — and  I  did  not  take  it,  and  would  not." 
That  same  night  he  spoke  of  his  first  poem  —  the 
first  that  ever  was  printed  —  and  described  his 
trepidation,  when  going,  in  the  evening,  to  drop  the 
precious  manuscript  into  the  editor's  box.  This 
was  at  a  newspaper  office  in  Portland,  Maine, 
when  he  was  a  boy.  Publication  day  arrived  and 
the  paper  came  out  —  but  not  a  word  of  the  poem. 
"But  I  had  another  copy,"  he  said,  "and  I  imme- 
diately sent  it  to  the  rival  paper,  and  it  was  pub- 
lished." And  then  he  described  his  exultation 
and  inexpressible  joy  and  pride,  when, —  having 
bought  a  copy  of  the  paper,  still  damp  from  the 
press,  and  walked  with  it  into  a  by-street  of  the 
town,  —  he  saw,  for  tlie  first  time,  a  poem  of  his 
own  actually  in  print!  "I  have  never  since  had 
such  a  thrill  of  delight,"  he  said,  "  over  any  of  my 
publications." 

His  sense  of  luimnur  found  especial  pleasure  in 
the  inappropriate  words  that  were  sometimes  said  to 
him  by  persons  whose  design  it  was  to  be  compli- 


io6  Longfellow. 

mentary,  and  he  would  relate,  with  a  keen  relish 
of  their  pleasantry,  anecdotes,  to  illustrate  this  form 
of  social  blunder.  Years  ago  he  told  me,  at  Cam- 
bridge, about  the  strange  gentleman  who  was  led 
up  to  him  and  introduced,  at  Newport,  and  who 
straightway  said,  with  enthusiastic  fervour,  —  "  Mr. 
Longfellow,  I  have  long  desired  the  honour  of 
knowing  you  !  Sir,  I  am  one  of  the  few  men  who 
have  read  your  'Evangeline.'"  Another  of  his 
favourites  was  related  to  me  a  day  or  two  after  it 
occurred.  The  poet's  rule  was  to  reserve  the  morn- 
ing for  work,  and  visitors  were  not  received  before 
12  o'clock,  noon.  One  morning  a  man  forced  his 
way  past  the  servant  who  had  opened  the  hall-door 
and  bursting  upon  the  presence  of  the  astonished 
author,  in  his  library,  addressed  him  in  the  follow- 
ing remarkable  words  :  "  Mr.  Longfellow,  you  're 
a  poet,  I  believe,  and  so  I  've  called  here  to  see  if 
I  couldn't  git  you  to  write  some  poetry,  for  me  to 
have  printed,  and  stuck  onto  my  medicine  bottles. 
You  see,  I  go  round  sellin'  this  medicine,  and  if  you 
give  me  the  poetry,  I  '11  give  you  a  bottle  of  the 
carminative  —  and  it's  one  dollar  a  bottle."  For 
the  full  enjoyment  of  this  story  it  was  needful  to 
see  the  poet's  face  and  hear  the  bland  tone  of  his 
voice.  More  than  twenty-four  years  ago  he  told 
me  that  incident  —  sitting  by  the  wide  fire-place,  in 
the  library  back  of  his  study.  As  I  write  his  words 
now,  the  wind  seems  again  to  be  moaning  in  the 
chimney,  and  the  fire-light  flickers  upon  his  pale, 


Personal  Recollections.  107 

handsome,  happy  face,  and  already  silvered  hair. 
He  took  delight  in  any  bit  of  quiet  fun,  like  that. 
He  was  always  gracious,  always  kind,  always  wish- 
ful to  make  every  one  liapj^iy  that  came  near  him  ! 

About  poetry  he  talked  with  the  earnestness  of 
what  was  a  genuine  passion,  and  yet  with  no  par- 
ticle of  self-assertion.  Tennyson's  "  Princess  "  was 
a  new  book  when  first  I  heard  him  speak  of  it,  and 
I  remember  Mrs.  Longfellow  sitting  with  that  vol- 
ume in  her  hands  and  reading  it  by  the  evening 
lamp.  The  delicate  loveliness  of  the  little  lyrical 
pieces  that  are  interspersed  throughout  its  text 
was,  in  particular,  dwelt  upon  as  a  supreme  merit. 
Among  his  own  poems  his  favourite  at  that  time  was 
"  Evangeline  "  ;  but  he  said  that  the  style  of  versi- 
fication which  pleased  him  best  was  that  of  "  The 
Day  is  Done"  ;  nor  do  I  wonder,  reading  this  now, 
together  with  "  The  Bridge,"  "Twilight,"  "The 
Children's  Hour,"  and  "The  Open  Window,"  and 
finding  them  so  exquisite  both  in  pathos  and  music. 
He  said  also  that  he  sometimes  wrote  poems  that 
were  for  himself  alone,  that  he  should  not  care  ever 
to  publish,  because  they  were  too  delicate  for  pub- 
lication. One  of  his  sayings  was  that  "'the  desire 
of  the  young  poet  is  not  for  applause,  but  for  rec- 
ognition." He  much  commended  the  example,  in 
one  respect,  of  the  renowned  Italian  poet  Alfieri, 
who  caused  himself  to  be  bound  into  his  library 
chair  and  left  for  a  certain  period  of  time,  each 
day,    at    his    library    table  —  his    servants    being 


1 08  Longfelloiv. 

strictly  enjoined  not  to  release  him  till  that  time 
had  passed :  by  this  means  he  forced  himself  to 
labour.  No  man  ever  believed  more  firmly  than 
Longfellow  did  in  regular,  proportioned,  resolute, 
incessant  industry.  His  poem  of  "The  Builders" 
contains  his  creed;  his  poem  of  "The  Ladder  of 
St.  Augustine  "  is  the  philosophy  of  his  career. 
Yet  I  have  many  times  heard  him  say  "the  mind 
cannot  be  controlled";  and  the  fact  that  he  was, 
when  at  his  best,  a  poet  of  pure  inspiration  is 
proved,  beyond  possibility  of  doubt,  by  such  poems 
as  "  Sandalphon,"  "  My  Lost  Youth,"  "  The  Be- 
leaguered City,"  "The  Fire  of  Drift  Wood,"  "Sus- 
piria,"  "The  Secret  of  the  Sea,"  "The  Two 
Angels,"  and  "  The  Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports," 
Either  of  them  is  worthy  of  the  brightest  name 
that  ever  was  written  on  the  scroll  of  the  lyric 
muse. 

The  two  writers  of  whom  he  oftenest  spoke, 
within  my  hearing,  were  Lowell  and  Hawthorne. 
Of  Lowell  he  said,  "He  is  one  of  the  manliest  and 
noblest  men  that  ever  lived."  "  Hawthorne  often 
came  into  this  room,"  he  said,  "and  sometimes  he 
would  go  there,  behind  the  window  curtains,  and 
remain  in  silent  reverie  the  whole  evening.  No 
one  disturbed  him  ;  he  came  and  went  as  he  liked. 
He  was  a  mysterious  man."  With  Irving's  works 
he  was  especially  familiar,  and  he  often  quoted 
from  them,  in  his  talk  to  me.  One  summer  day  at 
his  cottage  at  Nahant  I  found  him  reading  Cooper's 


Personal  Recollections.  109 

sea  stories,  and  had  the  comfort  of  hearing  from 
his  hps  a  tribute  to  that  great  writer  —  the  fore- 
most novelist  in  American  literature,  unmatched 
since  Scott,  in  the  power  to  treat  with  a  free  in- 
spiration and  vigorous  and  splendid  descriptive 
skill  the  vast  pageants  of  nature,  and  to  build  and 
sustain  ideals  of  human  character  worthy  of  such 
surroundings.  Longfellow  was  in  fine  spirits  that 
day,  and  very  happy,  and  I  have  always  thought  of 
him  as  he  looked  then,  holding  his  daughter  Edith 
in  his  arms  —  a  little  child,  with  long,  golden  hair, 
and  lovely,  merry  face  —  and,  by  his  mere  presence, 
making  the  sunshine  brighter  and  the  place  more 
sacred  with  kindness  and  peace. 

The  best  portrait  of  Longfellow  is  the  one  made 
by  Samuel  Lawrence  :  and  it  is  the  best  because  it 
gives  the  noble  and  spirited  poise  and  action  of  his 
head,  shows  his  clean-cut,  strong,  yet  delicate  fea- 
tures unmasked  with  a  beard,  and  preserves  that 
alert,  inspired  expression  which  came  into  his  face 
when  he  was  affected  by  any  strong  emotion.  I 
recall  Mrs,  Longfellow's  commendation  of  it,  in  a 
fireside  talk.  It  was  her  favourite  portrait  of  him. 
We  discussed  together  Thomas  Buchanan  Read's 
portrait  of  him,  and  of  his  three  daughters,  when 
those  pictures  were  yet  fresh  from  the  easel.  I 
remember  speaking  to  him  of  a  fancied  resem- 
blance between  the  face  of  Mrs.  Longfellow  and 
the  face  of  "  Evangeline,"  in  Faed's  well-known 
picture.     He  said  that  others  had  noticed  it,  but 


no 


Longfellow. 


that  he  himself  did  not  perceive  it.     Yet  I  think 
those  faces  were  alilce,  in  stateliness  and  in  the 
mournful  beauty  of  the  eyes.     It  is  strange  what 
trifles  crowd  upon  the  memory,  when  one  thinks 
of  the  long  ago  and  the  friends  that  have  departed. 
I  recollect  his  smile  when  he  said  that  he  always 
called  to  mind  the  number  of  the  house  in  Beacon 
Street,   Boston,  —which   was    Mrs.    Longfellow's 
home  when  she  was  Miss  Appleton,  —  "by  think- 
ing of  the  39  Articles."      I   recollect  the  gentle 
gravity  of  his  voice  when  he  showed  me  a  piece  of 
the  cofHn  of  Dante,  and  said,  in  a  low  tone,  "  That 
has  touched  his  bones."     I  recollect  the  benignant 
look  in  his  eyes  and  the  warm  pressure  of  his  hand 
when  he  bade  me  good-bye  (it  was  the  last  time), 
saying,  "  You  never  forget  me  — you  always  come 
to  see  me."    There  were  long  lapses  of  time  during 
which  I  never  saw  him,  being  held  fast  by  incessant 
duties  and  driven  far  away,  by  the  gales  of  life, 
from  the  old  moorings  of  my  youth.     But,  as  often 
as  I  came  back  to  his  door,  his  love  met  me  on 
the  threshold,  and  his  noble  serenity  gave  me  com- 
fort and  peace.     It  is  but  a  little  while  ago  since, 
in  quick  and  delicate  remembrance  of  the  old  days, 
he  led  me  to  his  hearthstone,  saying,  "  Come  and 
sit  in  my  children's  chair."     What  an  awful  solem- 
nity, and   yet  what  a   soothing   sense   of  perfect 
nobleness  and  beneficent  love,  must  hallow  now 
that  storied  home  from  which  his  earthly  and  visi- 
ble presence  has  forever  departed  ! 


Personal  Recollections.  1 1 1 

Twenty  years  ago  last  summer,  on  a  day  of  sun- 
shine and  flowers  and  gently  whispering  winds, 
those  rooms  were  hushed  and  darkened,  and  a 
group  of  mourning  friends  stood  around  the  sacred 
relics  —  beautiful  in  death  —  of  the  poet's  wife. 
Only  one  voice  was  heard — the  voice  of  prayer. 
But  every  heart  prayed  for  the  lonely  sufferer,  thus 
awfully  stricken  and  left  to  bear  the  burden  of  a 
great  and  endless  grief.  And  then  we  followed  her 
to  the  place  of  her  final  rest.  Here  before  me  is  a 
twig  that  I  broke,  that  day,  from  a  tree  beside  her 
grave.  I  may  keep  it  now  in  remembrance  of  him 
as  well  as  of  her.  He  has  fulfilled  within  twenty 
years  some  of  the  greatest  works  of  his  life  ;  but  in 
all  that  time  he  has  only  been  waiting  for  the  hour 
which  came  to  him  at  last.  Through  all  the  grand 
poise  of  his  being,  through  his  never-ending  still 
beginning  labour,  through  his  quiet  ways  neither 
mournful  nor  gay,  through  his  meek  but  manly 
acceptance  of  all  the  events  of  life,  through  the 
high  and  solemn  strains  of  his  latter  poetry,  and 
through  that  wistful,  haunted  look  in  his  venerable, 
bard-like  countenance,  this  was  the  one  prevailing 
truth.  He  was  waiting  for  the  end.  We  who 
loved  him  must  mourn  for  him,  but  not  in  despair- 
ing gloom.  The  world  is  lonelier  for  his  absence. 
"  Woe  is  me,  that  I  should  gaze  upon  thy  place  and 
find  it  vacant ! " 

"  O  friend  !     0  best  of  friends  !     Thy  absence  more 
Than  the  impending  night  darkens  the  landscape  o'erl " 


1 1 2  Longfellow. 

Yet  let  us  think  of  the  great  life  that  he  so  amply 
and  nobly  filled  and  accomplished  ;  his  grand  con- 
quest of  trouble  ;  the  vast  treasure  of  wisdom  and 
beauty  that  he  has  left  in  the  world  to  comfort  and 
strengthen  and  guide  us  ;  the  relief  that  he  has 
found  from  sadness,  sickness,  and  age  ;  the  happi- 
ness into  which  assuredly  he  has  entered  !  Let  us 
turn  to  his  own  words,  and  take  comfort  once  more 
from  that  loving  heart  which  was  always  so  ready 
to  give  it :  "  Death  is  neither  an  end  nor  a  begin- 
ning. It  is  a  transition,  not  from  one  existence  to 
another,  but  from  one  state  of  existence  to  another. 
No  link  is  broken  in  the  chain  of  being;  any  more 
than  in  passing  from  infancy  to  manhood,  from 
manhood  to  old  age.  .  .  .  Death  brings  us  again 
to  our  friends.  They  are  waiting  for  us,  and  we 
shall  not  long  delay.  They  have  gone  before 
us,  and  are  like  the  angels  in  heaven.  They  stand 
upon  the  borders  of  the  grave  to  welcome  us, 
with  the  countenance  of  affection  which  they  wore 
on  earth ;  yet  more  lovely,  more  radiant,  more 
spiritual.  .  .  .  The  far  country  toward  which  we 
journey  seems  nearer  to  us,  and  the  way  less  dark; 
for  thou  hast  gone  before,  i^assing  so  quietly  to  thy 
rest  that  day  itself  dies  not  more  calmly." 

"  O  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 
All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 
If  I  but  remember  only 
Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died.  " 


III. 


ELEGY    ON    THE    DEATH    OF 
LONGFELLOW. 

(Obiit  March  24TH,  18S2. ) 


A   LONE,  at  night,  he  heard  them  sigh  — 
•^^  These  wild  March  winds  that  beat  his  tomb  ■ 
Alone,  at  night,  from  those  that  die, 
He  sought  one  ray,  to  light  his  gloom. 


And  still  he  heard  the  night  winds  moan, 
And  still  the  mystery  closed  him  round, 

And  still  the  darkness,  cold  and  lone, 
Sent  forth  no  ray,  returned  no  sound. 


114  Longfellow. 

But  Time  at  last  the  answer  brings, 
And  he,  past  all  our  suns  and  snows, 

At  rest  with  peasants  and  with  kings, 
Like  them  the  wondrous  secret  knows. 

Alone,  at  night,  we  hear  them  sigh  — 
These  wild  March  winds  that  stir  his  pall; 

And,  helpless,  wandering,  lost,  we  cry 
To  his  dim  ghost,  to  tell  us  all. 

He  loved  us,  while  he  lingered  here ; 

We  loved  him  —  never  love  more  true  ! 
He  will  not  leave,  in  doubt  and  fear, 

The  human  grief  that  once  he  knew. 

For  never  yet  was  born  the  day, 
When,  faint  of  heart  and  weak  of  limb, 

One  suffering  creature  turned  away, 

Unhelped,  unsoothed,  uncheered  by  him  ! 

But  still  through  darkness,  dense  and  bleak, 
The  winds  of  March  moan  wildly  round, 

And  still  we  feel  that  all  we  seek 
Ends  in  that  sigh  of  vacant  sound. 


Longfellow.  115 

He  cannot  tell  iis  —  none  can  tell 
What  waits  behind  the  mystic  veil ! 

Yet  he  who  lived  and  died  so  well, 
In  that,  perchance,  has  told  the  tale. 

Not  to  the  wastes  of  Nature  drift  — 
Else  were  this  world  an  evil  dream  — 

The  crown  and  soul  of  Nature's  gift, 
By  Avon  or  by  Charles's  stream. 

His  heart  was  pure,  his  purpose  high, 
His  thought  serene,  his  patience  vast; 

He  put  all  strifes  of  passion  b}''. 
And  lived  to  God,  from  first  to  last. 

His  song  was  like  the  pine-tree's  sigh, 

At  midnight  o'er  a  poet's  grave, 
Or  like  the  sea-bird's  distant  cr\'. 

Borne  far  across  the  twilight  wave. 

There  is  no  flower  of  meek  delight, 
There  is  no  star  of  heavenly  pride. 

That  shines  not  fairer  and  more  bright 
Because  he  lived,  loved,  sang,  and  died. 


ii6  Longfellow. 

Wild  winds  of  March,  his  requiem  sing! 

Weep  o'er  him,  April's  sorrowing  skies  ! 
Till  come  the  tender  flowers  of  Spring 

To  deck  the  pillow  where  he  lies  : 

Till  violets  pour  their  purple  flood, 
That  wandering  myrtle  shall  not  lack, 

And,  royal  with  the  summer's  blood, 
The  roses  that  he  loved  come  back  : 

Till  all  that  Nature  gives  of  light, 
To  rift  the  gloom  and  point  the  way. 

Shall  sweetly  pierce  our  mortal  night. 
And  symbol  his  immortal  day  ! 


WANDERERS. 


THE  WRECKER'S  BELL. 
A  Ballad. 


npHERE  'S  a  lurid  light  in  the  clouds  to-night, 
•^       In  the  wind  there  's  a  desolate  moan ; 
And  the  rage  of  the  furious  sea  is  white, 

Where  it  beats  on  the  crags  of  stone : 
Stand  here  at  my  side,  and  look  over  the  tide, 

And  say  if  you  hear  it,  —  the  sullen  knell, 
Faint,  from  afar,  on  the  harbor-bar. 

The  hollow  boom  of  the  wrecker's  bell. 
For  I  cannot  hear  —  I  am  cold  with  fear  — 

Ah,  leave  me  not  alone  ! 
For  I  'm  old,  I  'm  old,  and  my  blood  is  cold, 

And  I  fear  to  be  alone. 


1 20  Wanderers. 

11. 

With  a  shudder  I  saw  his  ashen  face, 

In  that  wild  and  fearful  night  — 
For  his  blazing  eyes  illumed  the  place 

With  a  terrible,  ghastly  light ; 
And  ever  his  long  locks  floated  out. 

As  white  as  the  foam  of  the  sea  ; 
And  the  great  waves  dashed  on  the  rocks  about 

With  a  mad  and  cruel  glee. 
But  I  stood  by  his  side,  and  looked  over  the  tide. 

And  faintly  I  heard  that  solemn  knell, 
Faint,  from  afar,  on  the  harbor-bar, 

The  hollow  boom  of  the  wrecker's  bell. 


It  is  but  the  clang  of  the  signal  bell. 

That  floats  through  the  midnight  air: 
For  many  a  year,  in  the  surging  swell, 

Has  the  old  bell  sounded  there. 
When  the  storm  in  his  might  rides  through  the  night 

And  his  steeds  in  thunder  neigh, 
Then  its  iron  tongue  is  swayed  and  swung, 

And  plunged  in  the  angry  spray ; 


The   Wrecker  s  BelL  121 

And  so  when  tlic  summer  skies  are  bright, 

And  the  breakers  are  at  play. 
But  wherefore  is  it  you  stay  me  here, 

And  why  do  you  shudder  and  moan, 
And  what  are  the  nameless  shapes  you  fear 

In  this  desolate  place  alone  ? 
For  your  eyes  are  set  in  a  dreadful  glare, 

And  you  shrink  at  the  solemn  knell, 
As  it  trembles  along  the  midnight  air  — 

The  boom  of  the  wrecker's  bell. 

IV. 

Look  up,  he  cried,  to  the  awful  sky, 

Look  over  the  furious  sea, 
And  mark,  as  the  grinning  fiends  float  by. 

How  they  beckon  and  howl  to  me  ! 
They  are  ringing  my  knell  with  the  baleful  bell. 

And  they  gloat  on  the  doom  to  be. 
Ah !  give  me  your  hand,  and  look  not  back  — 

We  stand  not  here  alone  — 
And  the  horrible  shapes  that  throng  my  track 

Would  turn  your  heart  to  stone. 
The  spell  of  the  dead  is  on  the  hour. 
And  I  yield  my  soul  to  its  fearful  power. 


122  Wandcrets, 


A  face  looks  forth  in  the  darkness  there, 

A  young  face,  sweet  with  a  rosy  hght : 
The  sunshine  sleeps  in  her  golden  hair, 

And  her  violet  eyes  are  softly  bright : 
On  her  parted  lips  there  's  an  innocent  smile, 

Like  a  sunbeam  kissing  a  velvet  rose  ; 
And  her  cheeks  of  pearl  grow  warm  the  while. 

With  a  delicate  blush  that  comes  and  goes. 
Ah  !  purer  than  morn  in  its  purest  hour, 

And  holy  as  one  from  an  angel  clime. 
Was  the  tender  woman,  the  beautiful  flower, 

I  loved  and  lost  in  the  far-off  time. 


VI. 

One  fatal  night,  in  the  long  ago. 

My  gallant  cruiser  passed  that  bar. 
In  a  bank  of  clouds  the  moon  hung  low, 

And  the  sombre  sky  showed  never  a  star. 
The  night  was  calm,  but  I  heard  in  the  swell 

A  murmur  of  storm,  and,  far  away. 
The  muffled  toll  of  the  wrecker's  bell, 

As  it  floated  up  from  the  outer  bay. 


The   Wrecker'' s  Bell.  123 

And  a  look  of  hate  in  the  waiting  waves 
Spoke  to  my  soul  of  a  place  of  graves. 

VII. 

I  watched  them  there,  as  I  stood  at  the  wheel,  — 

The  happy  lover,  the  radiant  bride,  — 

And  the  wasting  fever  of  frantic  pain 

And  terrible  passion  burnt  my  brain  ; 

And  I  felt  what  only  demons  feel. 

For  the  man  who  walked  by  that  woman's  side. 

With  gentle  murmur  the  lovers  talked, 

As  to  and  fro  on  the  deck  they  walked. 

Nothing  they  thought  of  danger  then, 

Or  the  schemes  and  crimes  of  wicked  men. 

Wrapt  in  a  quiet  dream  of  bliss, 

And  consecrate  with  a  marriage  kiss, 

What  could  those  innocent  creatures  know 

Of  the  burning  hate  and  the  maddening  woe, 

And  tlie  deadly  purpose  of  blind  despair. 

In  the  heart  of  the  fiend  beside  them  there  ! 

VIII. 

An  hour  had  passed  —  he  stood  alone, — 
I  thought  no  creature  saw  the  blow 


124  Wanderers. 

That  felled  him,  senseless  as  a  stone, 
Or  heard  the  pitiful,  low  moan, 
His  death-sigh,  as  he  sank  below 
These  very  waters  where  they  flow 

Around  that  vengeful  bell. 
But  joy,  like  grief,  will  vigils  keep  ; 
And  love  hath  eyes  that  never  sleep, 

And  secret  tongues  that  tell. 
She  passed  me  like  a  bolt  of  light, 
A  heavenly  angel  robed  in  white  ! 
One  dazzling  gleam,  one  cry  so  shrill 
That  sea  and  sky  and  this  lone  hill 
Are  echoing  with  its  anguish  still  — 
And  she  had  leaped  into  the  night : 
And  on  her  murdered  lover's  breast 
In  the  same  wave  she  sunk  to  rest. 

That  moment  o'er  the  sky 
Flamed  the  red  wrath  of  such  a  storm 
As  might  enwreathe  the  Avenger's  form, 

When  howling  fiends  defy. 
No  ship  could  live  in  the  gale  that  blew, 
And  mine  went  down  with  all  her  crew  — 

I  only  left  alive  ! 
Spurned  upward  out  of  weltering  hell 


The   Wrecker's  Bell.  125 

To  that  same  reef  where  swings  tlie  bell 
That,  ever  since,  with  fateful  spell, 
Hath  drawn  me  by  its  hideous  knell, 

I  breathed,  and  ceased  to  strive  — 
I,  whom  tlie  lightning  will  not  rend. 
Nor  waves  engulf,  nor  death  befriend. 

Nor  holy  father  shrive  !  .  .  . 

IX. 

There  's  a  lurid  light  in  the  clouds  to-night, 

In  the  wind  there  's  a  desolate  moan  ; 
But  the  waves  roll  soft  on  the  sand  so  white, 

And  break  on  the  crags  of  stone  ; 
And  the  sea-gulls  scream  in  their  frolic  flight. 

And  all  my  dream  is  flown. 
But,  far  away  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
I  still  can  hear  it,  the  muftled  boom,  — 
And  it  seems  to  be  ringing  a  dead  man's  knell, — 
Solemn  and  slow,  of  the  wrecker's  bell. 


t 


ACCOMPLICES. 


[The  Murderer.] 


"OLACK  rocks  upon  the  dreadful  coast, 
-*-^^     Mutter  no  more  my  hidden  crime  ! 
I  hear,  far  off,  your  sullen  boast, 
But  I  defy  you  !   't  is  not  time  ! 


You  cannot  tell  our  secret  yet ; 

The  trusty  sea  must  keep  its  dead, 
And  many  suns  arise  and  set 
Before  that  awful  word  is  said. 

I  am  but  young  ;  I  've  all  the  grace 
Of  life,  and  love,  and  beauty  now : 

There  's  not  a  wrinkle  on  my  face  ; 
There 's  not  a  shadow  on  my  brow. 


Accomplices.  127 

I  cannot  bear  the  cLirksome  grave 
I  will  not  leave  the  cheerful  sun ! 

Rave  on  !  in  storm  and  midnight  rave, 
For  years  and  years,  till  all  is  done. 

Till  these  brown  locks  are  changed  to  gray; 

Till  these  clear  eyes  are  dim  and  old  ; 
Not  yet,  not  yet  the  fatal  day 

When  all  that  horror  must  be  told  ! 

But,  then  —  gnash  all  your  jagged  teeth, 
And  howl  for  vengeance  !     I  will  come  ; 

And  that  same  cruel  pit  beneath 

Shall  yawn  and  gulf  me  to  my  home. 

To-day  —  forbear,  nor  mutter  more  ! 

The  sky  is  dark,  and  dark  the  sea. 
And  all  the  land  from  shore  to  shore 

Is  hideous  with  your  grisly  glee. 


^^ 


^^ 


A   DREAM   OF   THE   PAST. 


'T^HE  peace  of  this  autumnal  day 

Allures  my  dreaming  thoughts  away, 
To  that  great  world  beyond  the  deep 
Where  I  so  many  treasures  keep. 
There,  fond  and  true,  one  friend  I  find, 
Whose  tender  heart  and  constant  mind 
Gave,  while  he  lingered  here  on  earth. 
Comfort,  and  cheer,  and  hope,  and  mirth ; 
And  still  they  waft  a  cordial  breath 
Across  the  icy  waves  of  death. 
His  nature,  while  he  dwelt  below, 
Was  like  these  days  :  this  season's  glow. 
The  misty  sky,  the  sleeping  sea, 
The  browning  grass,  the  burnished  tree, 


A  Dream  of  the  Past.  129 

The  wild  flowers,  swinging  o'er  the  brook, 
Were  in  his  heart  as  in  his  book. 
Alive,  he  charmed  away  life's  fret 
With  all  the  sunshine  he  could  get, 
And,  when  death  whispered,  softly  crept 
Into  a  quiet  place  and  slept ; 
And  Nature  never  saw  such  grace 
As  hallowed  then  his  noble  face. 
And  so,  to  think  upon  him  here, 
In  this  sweet  season  of  the  year, — 
Which  he  so  loved,  which  he  was  like 
As  clouds  are  to  the  clouds  they  strike,  — 
Is  winning  peace,  and  strength  to  live, 
Beyond  what  all  the  world  can  give. 

II. 

Ah,  not  to  me,  dear  heart,  was  said 
The  word  that  crowned  thy  royal  head 
First  with  the  aureole's  light  and  bloom, 
And  then  the  amaranth  of  the  tomb. 
Fate  gave  thee  power,  and  calm,  and  poise, 
And  all  thy  days  and  deeds  were  joys. 
Thine  were  the  forest  and  the  flood. 
The  sunrise  sparkled  in  thy  blood. 


13°  Wanderers. 

And  thou  didst  hold  a  careless  flight 
Above  the  dells  and  caves  of  night. 
But  ever  through  thy  smile  shone  clear 
The  lustre  of  compassion's  tear, 
The  pity  of  thy  gentle  mind, 
And  tenderness,  for  all  mankind. 
I  saw  thee  with  a  wistful  eye, 
And  saddened  — and  I  knew  not  why  ; 
Till  soon,  too  soon,  thy  summons  came, 
And  thou  wert  nothing  but  a  name. 
Ah,  day  of  misery  and  of  moan, 
When  grief  and  I  were  left  alone! 

III. 
Fate  gave  not  me  her  smile  benign  — 
That  pensive,  playful  calm  of  thine  — 
But  early  from  her  bosom  cast, 
To  be  the  sport  of  every  blast. 
To  war  with  passion,  and  to  know 
The  sting  of  want,  the  pang  of  woe,  — 
Forcing  a  soul,  for  kindness  born, 
To  every  strife  it  held  in  scorn. 
So,  careless  whether  right  or  wrong, 
I  battled  through  the  hostile  throng, 


A  Dream  of  the  Past.  i 

And  felt,  whatever  doom  might  be, 

Or  life  or  death  the  same  to  me. 

'T  was  then,  across  my  patliway  lone 

The  holy  star  of  friendship  shone  ! 

'T  was  then  thy  kindness  soothed  my  pain. 

And  arched  the  heaven  of  hope  again  ! 

As,  sudden  through  the  stormy  dark. 

Full  on  the  tempest-battered  barque. 

Home's  glad  and  golden  beacons  shine, 

So  flashed  thy  spirit  upon  mine  : 

And  not,  though  Hope's  last  star  were  set, 

Could  this  true  licart  of  mine  forget ! 

IV. 

Now,  of  our  few  but  happy  years 
Remains  this  flower,  that  bloomed  in  tears : 
A'ot  of  the  crown  of  life  bereft 
Is  he  who  yet  has  patience  left. 
The  haggard  sky,  the  surfs  dull  roar. 
The  midnight  storm,  are  mine  no  more  : 
But  mine  the  gleam  of  setting  sun, 
The  call  of  birds  when  day  is  done, 
The  last,  sad  light,  so  loath  to  pass 
It  weeps  upon  the  golden  grass, 


I -J  2  Wanderers. 

The  sigli  of  leaves  in  evening  air, 
The  distant  bell  that  calls  to  prayer,  — 
And  nothing  from  ray  spirit  bars 
The  benediction  of  the  stars. 

V. 
Ah,  loved  so  well  and  mourned  so  long, 
Here  in  my  heart  as  in  my  song, 
To  thy  dear  memory  let  me  raise 
One  tender  strain  of  other  days. 
One  pasan  to  the  good  thou  wast. 
One  low  lament  for  all  I  lost. 
Yet,  looking  o'er  life's  arid  track. 
Kind  soul,  I  would  not  wish  thee  back. 
What  sadder  lot,  what  doom  of  fate. 
More  sterile  is,  more  desolate, 
Than  here  to  goad  our  wearied  powers, 
And  toil  through  times  that  are  not  ours  ! 
Ah,  no,  the  silence  now  is  best. 
The  leaf  down-fluttering  o'er  thy  rest, 
And  every  kind,  caressing  sigh 
That  Nature  breathes  o'er  those  that  die  : 
While  thou,  in  some  serener  sphere, 
Forget'st  the  toils  and  troubles  here ; 


A  Dream  of  the  Past.  133 

Or,  made  a  part  of  flowers  and  trees, 
Art  pure,  and  calm,  and  safe,  like  these. 
—  Slow  pales  the  light;  the  day  declines  ; 
The  night-wind  murmurs  in  the  pines ; 
The  stars  come  out,  and,  far  away, 
Across  the  sweetly  sleeping  bay 
One  snow-white  sail,  by  sunset  kist, 
Fades  slowly  in  the  ocean  mist, 
Fades  —  like  all  joys  and  griefs  we  know, 
And  like  this  dream  of  Long  Ago. 


October,  iSSi. 


-^i 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


,N  roseate  shores,  in  evening's  glow, 
With  pulsing  music  soft  and  sweet, 
While  winds  of  summer  gently  blow, 

The  waves  of  Time's  great  ocean  beat ; 
No  cloud  obscures  the  heavenly  dome, 

And  only  on  the  shining  sea 
The  tossing  crests  of  silver  foam 
Presage  the  tempest  yet  to  be. 

II. 
Low  down  upon  the  ocean's  verge. 

Blent  with  the  waters  and  the  skies, 
Far,  far  across  the  sounding  surge, 

The  Golden  City's  towers  arise  : 


Homeward  Bound.  135 

Fair  in  the  sunset  light  they  gleam, 
Youth's  chosen  realm,  bold  manhood's  goal, 

The  promised  land  of  fancy's  dream, 
The  Golden  City  of  the  soul ! 

III. 
How  softly  bright,  how  purely  cold, 

Those  domes  and  pinnacles  of  bliss ! 
How  radiant,  through  its  gates  of  gold, 

That  world  of  rapture  smiles  on  this  ! 
How  glorious,  in  the  dying  day, 

O'er  bastion  ridge  and  glimmering  moat, 
Through  rainbow  clouds  and  rosy  spray. 

Its  purple  banners  flash  and  float  ! 

IV. 

There,  safe  from  every  mortal  ill, 

Waits  every  wasted  love  of  man  ; 
The  hopes  that  Time  could  ne'er  fulfil, 

And  only  Death  and  Nature  can  ! 
There  peace  shall  touch  the  eyes  of  grief. 

And  mercy  soothe  the  heart  of  pain  ; 
And  every  bud,  and  flower,  and  leaf 

That  withered  here  shall  bloom  again  ! 


136  Wanderers. 

V. 

Ah,  sailor  to  the  golden  realm, 

With  hope's  glad  haven  just  before, 
Why  muse  beside  the  idle  helm, 

With  hstless  glances  back  to  shore  ? 
Night  hovers  o'er  his  trackless  way, 

To  blot  the  stars  and  dim  the  land ; 
What  voice  is  at  his  heart,  to  stay 

The  signal  wafture  of  his  hand  ? 


Not  thus,  in  other  days,  his  soul 

Of  power  and  trust  could  wander  back- 
But  saw  the  mists  of  time  unroll, 

And  angels  throng  his  shining  track;  j 
Heard  mystic  voices,  from  afar, 

Of  warders  on  the  sacred  coast ; 
Sprang  up  to  meet  the  morning  star 

And  mingle  with  the  heavenly  host. 

VII. 

But  he  has  borne  the  rage  of  storms, 
Through  many  a  slow  and  patient  year, 


Homeward  Bound.  137 

Still  following  those  celestial  forms 
That  beckon  and  elude  him  here  : 

Till  doubt  has  dimmed  his  eager  gaze, 
And  toil  subdued  his  ardent  mind, 

And  sorrow  burdened  all  his  days 
With  quest  of  peace  he  shall  not  find. 


VIII. 

Her  kiss  is  cold  upon  his  lips, 
Who  swore  to  be  forever  true  ; 

His  eyes  have  seen  youth's  phantom  ships 
•  Fade  down  beyond  the  distant  blue  ; 

His  hand  has  cleared  the  gathering  moss 
From  many  a  tablet,  cold  and  white. 

Where,  dark  with  sense  of  doom  and  loss. 
His  comrades  sleep,  in  starless  night. 


IX. 

The  wayward  shafts  of  cruel  fate, 

That  strike  the  best  and  purest  lives  ; 

The  curse  of  blessings  come 'too  late  ; 
The  broken  faith  that  life  survives  ; 


138  Wanderers. 

Love's  frail  pretence,  ambition's  lure, 
Malignant  envy's  poisoned  dart, 

That  wounds  and  tortures,  past  all  cure, 
The  mangled,  seared,  imbittered  heart ;  — 

X. 

The  weary,  wistful,  sad  repose 

Of  ardour  quenched  and  feeling  sped  ; 
The  arid  calm  he  only  knows 

Whose  hope  is  —  like  his  idols  —  dead; 
All  that  repentant  spirits  bear. 

For  sin  and  folly  past  recall ; 
Remorse,  endurance,  patience,  care  — 

His  soul  has  known  and  borne  them  all. 

XI. 

Ah,  touch  him  gently,  winds  of  night. 

And  ocean  odours,  vague  and  strange, 
Revive  his  morn  of  young  delight  — 

Supreme  o'er  doubt,  and  fear,  and  change  ! 
The  fading  tints  of  life  restore, 

The  wasted  fires  of  youth  relume  — 
And  round  his  radiant  path  once  more 

Let  music  sound  and  roses  bloom ! 


Homeward  Bound. 


XII. 


139 


Long  has  he  gazed  in  Nature's  eyes, 

Long  kept  the  faith  her  glory  yields 
The  pageants  of  the  starry  skies, 

The  flowery  pomp  of  spangled  fields, 
The  fragrant  depth  of  woodland  ways. 

White  in  the  moon,  or  dusk  and  dim, 
And  lonely  mountain  tops  that  blaze 

Through  sunset  lustre,  vast  and  grim. 

XIII. 

Long  has  he  bowed  at  Nature's  shrine  — 

Shall  Nature's  soul  desert  him  now? 
Ah,  shine  again,  thou  star  divine, 

And  touch  with  light  his  darkening  brow! 
Though  pleasures  pall,  though  idols  fall, 

Though  wisdom  end  in  long  regret. 
Death's  glorious  conquest  pays  for  all, 

And  He  who  made  will  not  forget !  .  . 

XIV. 

The  day  is  done,  the  storm  is  free. 
And  night  and  danger  ride  the  gale  ; 


140  Wanderers. 

But,  bravely  speeding,  far  at  sea, 

Gleams,  white  and  clear,  one  lessening  sail ! 
One  moment  seen,  now  lost  to  sight, 

'Mid  driving  cloud  and  ocean's  roar; 
But,  steered  by  God's  own  beacon  light, 

He  yet  shall  reach  the  golden  shore. 


THE   POET'S   LIFE. 


/^RDAINED  to  work  the  heavenly  will 
^-^     Comes  a  bright  angel,  sent  from  far  ; 
And  Nature  feels  another  thrill, 
And  Love  has  lit  another  star. 

n. 

Earth  was  more  beautiful  because  of  him. 

Wild  flowers  were  born  ; 
And  limpid,  bickering  brooks, 
The  poet's  earliest  books. 
Spoke  of  a  new  delight 

Unto  the  morn  : 
And,  in  the  fragrant  night, 
When  fairies,  sporting  underneath  the  moon, 

In  airy  glee 

And  revelry, 


142  Wanderers. 

Made  the  wide  darkness  beautifully  bright, 
Like  brightest  noonday  in  the  heart  of  June, 
Every  wavelet  laughed,  and  after 
Seemed  to  chase  its  nimble  laughter; 
Till  spent, 

With  emulous  merriment. 
It  sunk  to  sleep  in  some  secluded,  cool, 
And  black  and  lucent  pool. 


III. 


On  meadows  starred  with  daisies 

The  wild  bee  swooned,  in  mazes 

Of  witching  odour,  richer  far 

Than  spikenard,  rose,  and  jasmine  are. 
All  natural   objects   seemed  to  catch  a  rare  and 
precious  gleam. 

Unknowing  why,  the  happy  birds 

Trilled  out  their  hearts  in  seeming  joyous  words, 

All  indistinct,  though  sweet,  to  mortal  ears; 

Such  as  a  poet  hears, 

With  joy  and  yet  with  tears, 
In  some  ethereal  reverie,  half  vision  and  half  dream. 


TJie  Poet's  Life.  143 

Through  breezy  tree-tops  jocund  voices  thrilled, 
And,  deep  in  slumberous  caverns  of  the  ocean, 
Wild  Echo  heard,  and  with  an  airy  motion 
Tossed  back  the  greeting  of  a  heart  o'er-filled 
With  gladness,  and  that  speaks  it  o'er  and  o'er, 

Till  bliss  can  say  no  more. 
The  waves  that  whispered  on  the  listening  sands 
Told  the  glad  tidings  unto  many  lands, 
And  the  stars  heard,  and  from  their  wandering  isles 
Dropt  down  the  blessing  of  their  golden  smiles.  .  .  . 


rv. 

Touched  by  the  lightning  of  the  Maker's  eyes 

He  spake  in  prophecies, 
Interpreting  the  earth,  the  sea,  the  skies  — 
All  that  in  Nature  is  of  mystery, 

All  that  in  Man  is  dark, 
All  that  the  perfect  future  is  to  be, 

When  quenched  our  mortal  spark 
And  souls  imprisoned  are  at  last  set  free. 
Backward  he  gazed,  across  the  eternal  sea. 
And  on  the  ever-lessening  shores  of  time 
Saw  ghosts  of  ruined  empires  wandering  slow. 


144  Wanderers. 

Then,  onward  looking,  saw  the  radiant  bow 
Of  promise,  shining  o'er  a  heavenly  clime. 
And  thus  he  knew  of  life  its  mystic  truth  — 
Hope,  with  perpetual  youth, 
And  that  wherein  all  doubt  and  trouble  cease, 
Sweet  child  of  patience,  peace. 


And  now  came  death,  a  gentle,  welcome  guest, 

And  touched  his  hand  and  led  him  into  rest. 

Time  paid  its  tribute  to  eternity  — 

A  great  soul,  ripe  for  the  immortal  day — 

And  earth  embraced  his  ashes  :  cold  their  bed, 

For  now  the  aged  year  was  also  dead. 

The  winter  wind  shrieked  loud,  with  hoarse  alarms, 

The  keen  stars  shivered  in  the  midnight  air. 
And  the  bare  trees  stretched  forth  their  stiffened  arms 

To  tl>e  wan  sky,  in  pale  and  speechless  prayer. 


VI. 

Speak  softly  here,  and  softly  tread. 
For  all  the  place  is  holy  ground 


The  Pod's  Life.  145 

Where  Nature's  love  enshrines  her  dead, 
And  earth  with  blessing  folds  them  round. 

He  rests  at  last :  the  world  far-off 

IVIay  riot  in  her  mad  excess, 
But  now  her  plaudit  and  her  scoff, 

To  him  alike  are  nothingness. 

He  learned  in  depths  where  virtue  fell 
The  heights  to  which  the  soul  may  rise  : 

He  sounded  the  abyss  of  hell, 
He  scaled  the  walls  of  paradise. 

What  else  ?     Till  every  wandering  star 
In  heaven's  blue  vault  be  cold  and  dim, 

Our  faithful  spirits,  following  far, 

Walk  in  the  light  that  falls  from  him. 


THE   MERRY  MONARCH. 


T  T  comes  into  my  mind,  in  a  genial  mood, 

When  the  worlds  of  my  being,  withoutand  within, 
Are  quietly  happy,  in  all  that  is  good. 

Unclouded  by  care  and  untempted  by  sin,  — 
If  the  gods  would  but  grant  me  my  dearest  desire, 

As  I  fancy,  sometimes,  they  're  incHning  to  do, 
That  I  should  n't  sit  here,  looking  into  the  fire, 

And  dreaming,  my  love,  as  I  'm  dreaming  of  you. 


n. 

Nor  should  I  be  thinking,  as  sometimes  I  am, — 
If  the  gods  had  but  made  me  the  thing  I  would  be,  — 

That  a  station  of  rank,  in  a  world  full  of  sham, 
Were  a  pleasant  and  suitable  station  for  me. 


The  Merry  Monarch.  147 

Nor  should  I  be  striving,  witli  heart  and  with  brain, 
For  the  laurel  that  poets  are  anxious  to  wear,  — 

That  dubious  guerdon  for  labour  and  pain, 
That  sorry  exchange  for  the  natural  hair. 

III. 
No !  I  never  should  care,  if  I  had  my  own  way, 

For  the  storm  or  the  sunshine,  the  Yes  or  the  No ; 
But,  quietly  careless  and  perfectly  gay, 

I  could  let  the  world  go  as  it  wanted  to  go. 
I  should  ask  neither  riches,  nor  station,  nor  power; 

They  are  chances,  they  happen,  and  there  is  an  end  ; 
But  a  heart  that  beats  merrily  every  hour 

Is  a  god's  richest  gift,  is  a  man's  truest  friend. 

IV. 

And  that 's  what  I  'd  have  !  For  that  blessing  I  pray  ! 

A  spirit  so  gentle  and  easy  and  briglit, 
It  would  gladden  with  sunshine  the  sunniest  day, 

And  with  magical  splendour  illumine  the  night. 
I  could  envy  no  potentate  under  the  sun. 

However  sublime  might  that  potentate  be  ; 
For  I  'd  live,  the  illustrious  Monarch  of  Fun, 

And  the  rest  of  the  world  should  be  happy  with  me. 


1 48  Wanderers. 

V. 

I  'd  be  gold  in  the  sunshine  and  silver  in  showers  ; 

I  'd  be  rainbows,  and  clouds  all  of  purple  and  pearl ; 
And  the  fairies  of  fun  should  laugh  out  of  the  flowers, 

And  the  jolly  old  earth  should  be  all  in  a  whirl ! 
Thebrooks  should  trill  music,  the  leaves  dance  in  glee, 

And  old  ocean  should  bellow  with  surly  delight : 
O,  but  would  n't  it  be  something  festal  to  see. 

If  the  gods  did  but  grant  me  my  kingdom  to-night ! 

VI. 

And  I  think  it  will  come,  —  that  succession  of  mine 

That  crown  with  the  opals  of  jollity  set ; 
And  the  joy  in  my  soul  will  be  something  divine 

When  I  finally  teach  myself  how  to  forget; 
Forget  every  sorrow  in  which  I  've  a  part, 

All  the  dreams  that  allure  and  the  hopes  that  betray ; 
Contented  to  wait,  with  a  right  merry  heart. 

For  silence  and  night  and  the  end  of  the  play. 


BLUE   EYES    AND   BLACK. 
A  Song. 

I. 

TJERE'S  a  health  to  the  lass  with  the  merry 
•*-  -^         black  eyes  ! 

Here  "s  a  health  to  the  lad  with  the  blue  ones ! 
Here  "s  a  bumper  to  love,  as  it  sparkles  and  flies, 

And  here  "s  joy  to  the  hearts  that  are  true  ones  ! 
Yes,  joy  to  the  hearts  that  are  tender  and  true,  — 

With  a  passion  that  nothing  can  smother ! 
To  the  eyes  of  the  one,  that  are  pensive  and  blue, 

And  the  merry  black  eyes  of  the  other  ! 

II. 

Mind  this  now,  my  lad,  with  the  sweet  eyes  of  blue, 
That,  whatever  the  graces  invite  you. 

There  is  nothing  for  you  in  this  world  that  will  do 
But  a  pair  of  black  eyes  to  delight  you : 


150  Wanderers. 

And  mind,  my  gay  lass,  with  the  dear  eyes  of  black, 

In  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  to  discover 
That  pure  light  of  affection  you  never  should  lack, — 

And  you  '11  always  be  true  to  your  lover ! 

III. 

Long,  long  shall  your  eyes  sparkle  back  with  a  kiss 

To  the  eyes  that  live  but  to  behold  you : 
Long,  long  shall  the  magic  of  mutual  bliss 

In  a  heaven  of  rapture  enfold  you  ! 
And  forever  to  you  shall  that  singer  ^  be  wise, 

Whose  sweet  thought  is  the  truest  of  true  ones, — 
That  the  answering  lustre  of  merry  black  eyes 

Is  the  life  of  a  pair  of  true  blue  ones. 

'  Goethe,  in  "  Wtlkclm  Meister.''''  — "  To  look  on  a  pair  of 
bright  black  eyes  is  the  life  of  a  fair  of  blue  ones," 


'^ 


OLD   TIMES. 


"D  OSY  clays  of  youth  and  fancy, 

Happy  hours  of  long  ago  ! 
Ah,  the  flickering  sunbeam  visions  — 
How  they  waver  to  and  fro ! 

Galaxies  of  blue-eyed  Marys, 

With  a  Julia  and  a  Jane, 
And  a  troop  of  little  Lauras, 

Blush,  and  laugh,  and  romp  again. 

Moonlight  meetings,  dreamy  rambles, 
In  the  balm  of  summer  night, 

When  our  hearts  were  full  of  rapture 
And  our  senses  of  delight,  — 


152  Wanderers. 

These  remember  —  and  remember 
How  the  fond  stars  shone  above, 

Keeping  in  their  mellow  splendour 
Watch  and  ward  upon  our  love. 

Youth  is  like  the  diamond  dawning  — 
Bold  it  breaks  to  gorgeous  day ; 

Heavenly  fires  of  power  and  beauty 
Blaze  and  burn  along  its  way. 

Far  within  its  mystic  future 
Oft  are  solemn  voices  heard! 

Shaped  to  many  a  stately  anthem 
Floats  the  music  of  a  word. 

But  that  music,  in  the  present, 
Droops  with  passion's  dull  decay. 

Till  its  echo,  in  the  spirit, 

Faints,  and  fails,  and  dies  away. 

Green  be  then  the  tender  memory 

Of  the  past,  forever  sped, 
So  that  youth  may  be  immortal. 

Though  its  days  and  dreams  are  dead ! 


JOHN   McCULLOUGH. 


Read  at  a  Banquet  at  Delmonico's,  New  York, 
April  4,  iSSi. 


T    ONG  hushed  is  the  harp  that  his  glory  had 
-'— '         spoken, 

Long  stilled  is  the  heart  that  could  summon  its 
strain ; 
Now  its  chords  are  all  silent,  or  tuneless,  or  broken, 

What  touch  can  awaken  its  music  again ! 

Ah,  the  breeze  in  the  green  dells  of  Erin  is  blowing  ! 

If  not  her  great  bard  yet  her  spirit  can  flame, 
When  proud  where  the  waters  of  Shannon  are  flowing 

Her  groves  and  her  temples  re-echo  his  name. 


154  Wanderers. 

Float  softly  o'er  shamrocks,  and  blue-bells,  androses, 
Blend  all  their  gay  tints  and  their  odours  in  one  ; 

And  sweet  as  the  zephyr  in  twilight  that  closes 
Be  the  kiss  of  thy  love  on  the  brows  of  thy  son  ! 

Breathe  tenderly  o'er  us,  who  cluster  around  him, 
In  this,  his  glad  moment  of  triumph  and  pride  : 

Deep,  deep  in  our  souls  are  the  ties  that  have  bound 
him. 
And  life  will  be  lone,  with  his  presence  denied. 


From  the  arms  of  the  mother,  in  childhood  a  rover, 
To  exile  he  came,  on  the  wanderer's  shore  : 

To  the  arms  of  the  mother,  his  trials  all  over. 
And  honoured  and  laurelled,  we  yield  him  once 
more. 


Speak  low  of  affection  that  longs  to  embrace  him, 
Speak  loud  of  the  fame  that  awaits  him  afar  — 

When  homage  shall  hail  him,  and  beauty  shall  grace 
him, 
And  pomp  hang  her  wreaths  on  the  conqueror's  car  1 


yohn  McCiiUough.  155 

When  the  shadows  of  time  at  his  touch  fall  asunder, 
And  heroes  and  demi-gods  leap  into  light  ; 

When  the  accents  of  Brutus  ring  wild  in  the  thunder, 
And  the  white  locks  of  Lear  toss  like  sea-foam 
in  night ; 

When  thegrief  of  the  Moor,  like  a  tempest  that  dashes 
On  crags  in  mid-ocean,  has  died  into  rest ; 

When  the  heart  of  Virginius  breaks,  o'er  the  ashes 
Of  her  who  was  sweetest,  and  purest,  and  best ; 


How  proudly,  how  gladly  their  praise  will  caress  him ! 

How  brightly  the  jewels  will  blaze  in  his  crown  ! 
How  the  white  hands  of  honour  will  greet  him  and 
bless  him 

With  lilies  and  roses  of  perfect  renown  ! 


Ah,  grand  is  the  flight  of  the  eagle  of  morning. 
While  the  dark  world  beneath  him  drifts  into  the 
deep ; 

But  cold  as  the  snow-wreaths  the  mountains  adorning 
Is  the  light  that  illumines  his  desolate  sweep. 


156  Wanderers. 

When  the  trumpets  are  blown  and  the  standards 
are  streaming, 

And  the  festal  lamps  beam  on  the  royal  array, 
How  oft  will  the  heart  of  the  monarch  be  dreaming 

Of  the  home  and  the  friends  that  are  far,  far  away ! 

There's  a  pulse  in  his  breast  that  would  always 
regret  us  — 
It  dances  in  laughter,  it  trembles  in  tears  ; 
With  the  world  at  his  feet,  he  would  never  forget  us, 
And  our  hearts  would  be  true,  through  an  ocean 
of  years ! 

The  cymbals  may  clash  and  the  gay  pennons  glisten, 
And  the  clangour  of  gladness  ring  jocund  and  free. 

But,  calm  in  the  tumult,  his  spirit  will  listen 
For  our  whisper  of  love,  floating  over  the  sea : 


For  the  music  of  tones  that  were  once  so  endearing 
(Like  a  wind  of  the  west  o'er  a  prairie  of  flowers). 

But  that  never  again  will  resound  in  his  hearing, 
Except  through  the  tremulous  sadness  of  ours. 


John  McCullough.  157 

Ah,  manly  and  tender,  thy  deeds  are  thy  praises  ! 

Speed  on  in  thy  grandeur,  all  peerless  and  lone, 
And  greet,   in  old   England,   her  hawthorns  and 
daisies,  — 

A  spirit  as  gentle  and  bright  as  their  own ! 

Speed  on,  wheresoever  God's  angel  may  guide  thee  ! 

No  fancy  can  dream  and  no  language  can  tell 
What  faith  and  what  blessings  walk  ever  beside  thee, 

Or  the  depth  of  our  love  as  we  bid  thee  Farewell. 


LAWRENCE    BARRETT. 


Read  at  a  Banquet  at  the  Lotos  Club,  New  York, 
June  7,  1881. 


T  X  THEN  from  his  gaze  our  shores  receding 

^  ^       In  night  and  distance  drift  away, 
And,  every  present  joy  unheeding. 

He  turns  to  muse,  and  grieve,  and  pray, 
How  will  regret  and  memory,  meeting. 

This  brilliant  scene  bring  back  to  view, 
And  hear  once  more  your  manly  greeting, 

And  sigh  once  more  his  fond  adieu  ! 

And  we,  by  sadness  made  more  tender, 
As  here  we  knit  our  broken  chain  — 

How  gladly  will  affection  render 
Our  gentle  tribute  once  again  ! 


Lawrence  Barrett.  159 

How  sweet  't  will  be,  though  joys  are  thwarted, 
And  smiles  rebuked  by  sorrow's  sigh, 

To  think,  however  friends  are  parted, 
At  least  that  friendship  cannot  die ! 


His  eyes  will  look  on  English  meadows 

Where  scarlet  poppies  smile  and  dream  ; 
And  he  will  muse  where  wandering  shadows 

Drift  over  Avon's  sacred  stream  ; 
And,  mind  and  soul  in  bondage  taken, 

Will  roam  those  temples  strange  and  vast, 
Where  every  pensive  step  will  waken 

The  glorious  memories  of  the  Past. 


But  we  shall  hear,  in  grief  beclouded, 

Poor  Harebell  mourn  his  ruined  home  ; 
And  see,  in  night  and  tempest  shrouded, 

Grim  Cassius  pace  the  stones  of  Rome  ; 
With  grizzled  Yorick,  frenzy-ridden, 

From  passion's  fevered  dream  awake  ; 
And  feel,  with  tears  that  flow  unbidden, 

The  royal  heart  of  Scotland  break. 


i6o  Wanderers. 

O,  Art  divine,  supreme,  undying  — 

Not  Time  nor  Space  can  e'er  subdue  ! 
The  seas  roll  on  —  the  years  are  flying  — 

Man  passes  —  Thou  alone  art  true  ! 
No  cloud  can  dim  their  deathless  lustre 

Whose  names  thy  angel  hands  enroll, 
Nor  blight  the  shining  shapes  that  cluster 

In  thy  vast  pantheon  of  the  soul ! 


Yet,  many  a  cherished  tie  is  broken, 

Across  that  darkening  waste  of  sea!  — 
They  make  no  sign,  they  send  no  token, 

They  come  not  back  to  love  and  me. 
I  know  where,  deaf  to  blames  and  praises, 

In  youth  and  beauty  cold  and  dead, 
Rests  now  beneath  old  England's  daisies 

Her  tenderest  heart,  her  loveUest  head ! 


And  him  we  cast  the  roses  after 

Whose  cynic  smile  was  humour's  kiss  — 
Whose  magic  turned  the  world  to  laughter 

Where  dwells  he,  in  an  hour  like  this  ? . 


Lawrence  Barrett.  i6i 

Ah,  let  us  think,  ihougli  gone  before  us,  — 
Tlic  vanished  friends  of  days  no  more,  — 

They  watch  with  fond  affection  o'er  us. 
And  bless  us,  from  their  heavenly  shore. 

I  see  the  radiant  phantoms  tlironging, 

To  clasp  him  in  their  guardian  thrall ! 
I  bless  him,  by  each  noble  longing 

That  e'er  his  gentle  lips  let  fall ! 
By  all  high  thought  and  pure  devotion  — 

By  towering  pine  and  nestling  rose  ! 
Farewell,  farewell !  on  land  or  ocean  — 

God  bless  him,  wheresoe'er  he  goes ! 


IN   HONOUR   OF   WILLIAM   WARREN. 


At  Boston,  October  sS,  1SS2,  was  commemorated,  by  appro- 
priate performances,  at  the  Museum,  and  in  other  ways,  the  Fifti- 
eth Anniversary  of  Mr.  Warren's  adoption  of  the  profession  of  the 
stage.  At  midnight,  after  the  play,  at  a  supper,  in  the  comedian's 
home,  at  No.  2  Bulfinch  Place,  a  Loving  Cup  was  presented  to 
him,  —  being  the  gift  of  Edwin  Booth,  Joseph  Jefferson,  Mary 
Anderson,  John  McCullough,  and  Lawrence  Barrett,  —  and,  in 
offering  that  tribute,  the  author  read  this  poem :  — 


"D  ED  globes  of  autumn  strew  the  sod, 

The  bannered  woods  wear  crimson  shields, 
The  aster  and  the  golden-rod 
Deck  all  the  fields. 


No  clarion  blast,  at  morning  blown, 

Should  greet  the  way-worn  veteran  here, 
Nor  roll  of  drum  nor  trumpet-tone 
Assail  his  ear. 


In  Honour  of  William    Warren.       163 

No  jewelled  ensigns  now  should  smite, 

With  jarring  flash,  down  emerald  steeps, 
Where  sweetly  in  the  sunset  light 
The  valley  sleeps. 

No  bolder  ray  should  bathe  this  bower 

Than  when,  above  the  glimmering  stream, 
The  crescent  moon,  in  twilight's  hour. 
First  sheds  her  beam. 

No  ruder  note  should  break  the  thrall, 

That  love  and  peace  and  honour  weave. 
Than  some  lone  wild-bird's  gentle  call, 
At  summer  eve. 

But  here  should  float  the  voice  of  song  — 

Like  evening  winds  in  autumn  leaves, 
Sweet  with  the  balm  they  waft  along 
From  golden  sheaves. 

The  sacred  Past  should  feel  its  spell, 

And  here  should  murmur,  soft  and  low, 
The  voices  that  he  loved  so  well, — 
Long,  long  ago. 


164  Wanderers. 

The  vanished  scenes  should  give  to  this 

The  cherished  forms  of  other  days, 
And  rosy  lips,  that  felt  his  kiss, 
Breathe  out  his  praise. 

The  comrades  of  his  young  renown 

Should  proudly  throng  around  him  now, 
When  falls  the  spotless  laurel  crown 
Upon  his  brow. 

Not  in  their  clamorous  shouts  who  make 

The  noonday  pomp  of  glory's  lord 
Does  the  true  soul  of  manhood  take 
Its  high  reward. 

But  when  from  all  the  glimmering  years 

Beneath  the  moonlight  of  the  past 
The  strong  and  tender  spirit  hears 
"Well  done,"  at  last; 

When  love  looks  forth  from  heavenly  eyes, 

And  heavenly  voices  make  acclaim, 
And  all  his  deeds  of  kindness  rise 
To  bless  his  name  ; 


In  Honour  of  William    Warren.       165 

When  all  that  has  been  sweetly  blends 

With  all  that  is,  and  both  revere 
The  life  so  lovely  in  its  ends, 
So  pure,  so  dear  ; 

Then  leaps  indeed  the  golden  flame 

Of  blissful  pride  to  rapture's  brim  — 
The  fire  that  sacramental  fame 
Has  lit  for  him  ! 

For  him  who,  lord  of  joy  and  woe, 

Through  half  a  century's  snow-white  j'ears 
Has  gently  ruled,  in  humour's  glow, 
The  fount  of  tears. 

True,  sinrple,  earnest,  patient,  kind. 

Through  griefs  that  many  a  weaker  will 
Had  stricken  dead,  his  noble  mind 
Was  constant  still. 

Sweet,  tender,  playful,  thoughtful,  droll, 

His  gentle  genius  still  has  made 
Mirth's  perfect  sunshine  in  the  soul, 
And  Pity's  shade. 


1 66  Wanderers. 

With  amaranths  of  eternal  spring 

Be  all  his  life's  calm  evening  drest, 
While  summer  winds  around  him  sing 
The  songs  of  rest ! 

And  thou,  O  Memory,  strange  and  dread, 

That  stand'st  on  heaven's  ascending  slope, 
Lay  softly  on  his  reverend  head 
The  wreath  of  Hope  ! 

So  softly,  when  the  port  he  wins. 

Toward  which  life's  happiest  breezes  blow, 
That  where  earth  ends  and  heaven  begins 
He  shall  not  know. 


W.  A.   S. 


[Obht,  January  7,  1SS3.] 


"/^  OOD  Night,  my  boy  ;  "  and  with  a  smile 

^-^      He  turned  his  steps  and  sped  away: 
Since  then  'tis  but  a  Httle  while, 

And  he  is  dead  to  day  : 
Dead,  and  the  friend  that  once  I  knew, 

My  comrade  both  in  joy  and  pain, 
So  often  tried  and  always  true, 

Will  never  smile  again. 

II. 
His  days  were  many,  and  the  world 

Had  most  of  all  his  thought  and  care  ; 
But  now  his  sails  of  toil  were  furled 

In  Art's  serener  air. 


[68  Wanderers. 

The  evening  lamp,  the  storied  page, 

The  mantling  glass,  the  song,  the  jest  — 

These  turned. the  twilight  of  his  age 
To  morning  and  to  rest. 


The  thorny  paths  of  life  he  knew ; 

His  tender  heart  was  quick  to  feel ; 
And  wounds  his  pity  wept  to  view, 

His  bounty  glowed  to  heal. 
Of  worldly  ways,  of  frailty's  slips, 

Of  mortal  sin,  he  had  his  share  ; 
Yet  still  could  breathe,  with  childhood's  lips, 

His  artless  childhood's  prayer. 

IV. 

Good  deeds  were  all  the  work  he  wrought ; 

Sweet  thoughts  and  merry  all  he  prized; 
Nor  power  nor  fame  by  him  was  sought, 

Nor  humble  things  despised. 
Strife  could  not  live  before  his  face. 

But,  wheresoe'er  his  footsteps  fell 
Came  kindness,  with  its  smile  of  grace, 

And  everything  was  well. 


PK  A.  S.  169 


He  did  not  strive  to  win  the  heights  : 

Enough  for  him  the  lowly  vale, 
The  autumn  sunset's  pensive  lights, 

The  autumn's  perfumed  gale. 
But  toilers  on  the  upward  slope, 

Who  greatly  strove  and  bravely  dared, 
Had  cheer  of  him,  and  felt  new  hope, 

Howe'cr  their  fortune  fared. 

VI. 

To  brighten  life,  where'er  he  went, 

With  laughter's  sparkle,  and  to  make 
Home's  fireside  lovely  with  content, 

For  gentle  humour's  sake  — 
This  was  his  fate.     Ah,  darkly  shows 

The  path  where  yesterday  he  shone, — 
That  downward  path  of  many  woes 

That  we  must  tread  alone. 


Yet  he,  like  us,  had  lost  and  grieved  : 
He  knew  how  hard  it  is  to  bear. 


17°  Wanderers. 

When,  lone  and  listless  and  bereaved, 

We  sink  in  dumb  despair. 
And  could  those  lips,  now  marble  chill. 

But  speak  once  more  from  that  true  heart, 
W^ith  what  a  jocund,  blithe  good-will 

They  'd  bid  our  grief  depart ! 

VIII. 

It  was  but  yesterday  he  went : 

This  is  the  room  and  that  the  door : 
When  some  few  idle  clays  are  spent 

'T  will  all  be  as  before  : 
The  heavenly  morning  will  destroy 

This  rueful  dream  of  death  and  pain, 
And  I  shall  hear  him  say  "  My  boy," 

And  clasp  his  hand  again. 


WHITE  ROSES. 


TV  /T  ORE  strange  thin  death  to  all  regrets, 
Love  gives  no  tear  to  passion  sped: 
Its  frozen  heart  at  once  forgets 

The  wronged,  the  absent,  and  the  dead. 
We  see  the  wave  that  Venus  rides  — 
We  do  not  see  the  doom  it  hides. 

II. 

Fierce,  boundless,  fetterless,  supreme. 
Relentless,  glorious,  mindless,  gay. 

Love  grants  us  one  supernal  dream, 
One  vision,  one  ecstatic  day  ; 

In  Fate's  dull  book  one  fiery  page  — 
Of  bliss  an  hour,  of  woe  an  age. 


172  Wanderers. 

III. 

Be  the  red  roses  nevermore 
Companions  to  a  thought  of  mine  ! 

Behind  me  fades  the  lessening  shore, 
Above,  the  stars  of  midnight  shine  ; 

On  black  and  dangerous  seas  they  gleam, 

And  life  is  done  with  doubt  and  dream. 


IV. 

Pale  spectres  of  all  dead  desire, 

Ye  wandering  souls  of  heavenly  light. 

So  lovely  in  your  soft  attire, 
So  coldly  pure,  so  sadly  bright, 

Henceforth  be  angels  of  my  fate, 

And  take  the  life  ye  consecrate  ! 


V. 

White  roses  for  the  cradled  head, 
The  bridal  veil,  the  stainless  pall ! 

When  love  and  sin  and  grief  are  dead, 
Let  the  white  roses  shroud  them  all ! 

Ah  !  bloom  for  me  while  time  flows  on, 

And  guard  my  rest  when  I  am  gone. 


IN  SANCTUARY. 


T^ZHILE  pale  with  rage  the  wild  surf  springs 

Athwart  the  harbor  bar, 
The  safe  ships  fold  their  snowy  wings, 

Beneath  the  evening  star  : 
In  this  calm  haven  rocked  to  sleep, 

All  night  they  swing  and  sway, 
Till  mantles  o'er  the  morning  deep 

The  golden  blush  of  day. 

II. 
Here,  safe  from  ever}'  storm  of  fate, 

From  worldly  strife  and  scorn, 
Thus  let  me  fold  my  hands  and  wait 

The  coming  of  the  morn  ; 
While  all  night  long,  o'er  moon-lit  turf, 

The  wind  brings  in  from  far 
The  moaning  of  the  baffled  surf 

Atliwart  the  harbor  bar. 


WILLIA:^!  WINTER'S  WORKS. 

I.    THE  POEMS  OF  WILLIAM  WINTEE. 
One  Vol.    i6mo.     Price,  $1.50. 

"It  is  essentially  lyrical  in  conception  and  execution,  and  breathes  an  aroma 
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of  flowers,  or  the  sound  of  a  distant  flute  across  a  still,  moonlit  lake.  There  is  a 
charm,  a  grace,  in  Mr.  Winter's  love-vcrsi  which  distinguishes  it  from  the  great 
body  of  modern  love-verso,  and  which,  if  it  reminds  us  of  anything,  reminds  us  of 
Carcw  and  Lovelace  and  Scdiey  at  their  best  It  is  frcsli,  simple,  and  exceed- 
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"Mr.  Winter  is  a  true  child  of  the  seventeenth  century.  There  is  much  of  the 
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the  work  of  any  modern  poet."  —  Boston  Traveller. 

"  This  work  is  characteriied  by  exquisite  perfection  of  form,  careful  and  artistic 
finish,  and  great  purity  and  delicacy  of  thought.  Sweet  as  the  strain  of  the  lark, 
these  lyrics  arc  strong'  as  well."  —  ylrf  hifcrchansf- 

n.    TEE  TRIP  TO  ENGLAND. 

One  Vol.     i6mo.     With  Full-page  Illustrations  by  Joseph 
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with  a  very  few  suggestive  touches,  shows  you  the  kind  of  pleasure  that  awaits  you  in 
English  streets  and  in  the  English  landscape." —  G.  W.  CURTIS,  in  Harper's 
Ala^aztne, 

"  There  is  to  us  a  peculiarly  agreeable  flavour  in  Mr.  Winter's  book  about  Eng- 
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sincere."  — yillantic  Monthly. 

"  The  book  is  delightful  reading It  is  a  delicious  view  of  England  which 

this  poet  takes.  It  is  indeed  the  noble,  hospitable,  merry,  romance-haunted 
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m.    THE  JEFFERSONS. 
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upwards  of  One  Hundred  and  Fifty  Years.  It  is  furniihed  with  a  thorough  Index, 
by  Laurence  Hutton. 

IV.    ENGLISH  RAMBLES,  AND  OTHER  FUGITIVE  PIECES. 
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This  book  contains  Ten  Chapters  of  English  Travel,  comtncmorativc  tributes  to 
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WORKS  EDITED  BY  WILLIAM  WINTER. 


POEMS   BY   GEORGE   ARNOLD.     New  Edition.     Edited,  with 

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entitle  it  to  a  permanent  place  in  our  literature."  —  N.  V.  Home  journal. 

"  While  he  lived  he  moved  the  hearts  of  his  fellow-men.  His  poems  were  read 
all  over  the  land  ;  even  the  wall  of  bayonets  which  stretched  across  the  country, 
dividing  it  in  twain,  did  not  prove  an  effectual  barrier  to  the  messages  he  sent  to 
human  hearts  ;  and  the  best  of  his  poems,  written  during  the  Civil  \^r,  were  read 
alike  in  Northern  homes  and  by  Southern  camp-fires."  —  jV.  Y.  Evetiing Post. 

LIFE,    STORIES,    AND   POEMS    OF  JOHN    BROUGHAM. 

One  volume.  i2mo.  Illustrated.  $2.00.  A  volume  of  nearly  500  pages,  contain- 
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**The  book  will  be  enjoyed  from  cover  to  cover."  —  N.  Y.  Herald. 
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actors  have  left  as  a  rich  inheritance  to  posterity. "  —  Boston  Traveller. 

LIFE,  STORIES,  AND  POEMS  OF  FITZ-JAMES  O'BRIEN. 

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Biographical  sketches  of  O'BRIEN,  by  GEORGE  ARNOLD,  L.  H.  STEPHENS, 
C.  D.  Shanly,  Stephen  Fiske,  T.  E.  Davis,  and  Frank  Wood.    Memoir 

by  WILLIAM  WINTER. 

The  choice  ballads  and  poems  of  O'BRIEN,  including  "The  Pot  of  Gold," 
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Thirteen  of  the  marvellous  stories  written  by  O'BRIEN,  which  revolution- 
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